Doppelgangers
by usa123
Summary: The Avengers have seen some strange things over the years but the frequency at which they run into their lookalikes might just take the cake. Chapter 15: After a 4 A.M. phone call from Tony Stark, Frank Adler discovers Mary applied for a SI Internship (Gifted). Chapter 16: The IMF calls in a favor with SHIELD when Brandt is injured en route to a mission (Mission Impossible).
1. Chapter 1: What's Your Number

**Hello! This story is going to be composed of a series of one-shots, each focusing on a different doppelgänger. Some of the** **doppelgängers** **are going to meet (like Steve Rogers and Johnny Storm in my** _ **Double Take**_ **one-shot), others are going to meet someone else's** **doppelgänger** **without that teammate present (Tony Stark and Pepper Potts meet Carl Casper and Molly), and still other chapters are going to slightly alter real-world events (was Jeremy Renner really in the "Trouble"** **music video or was it Clint Barton on a mission?). I'm doing my best to mix it up so you're not reading the same plot for every chapter. I hope you enjoy!**

 **A/N:** _ **Double Take**_ **, when the Avengers meet the Fantastic Four, is technically the first chapter in this series. I won't be including it for redundancy's sake, but it can be found on my profile if you're interested.**

* * *

Four months after waking up from suspended animation, Steve Rogers was still amazed that people could be so oblivious to the world around them. As he sidestepped yet another person who wasn't paying attention to where he was walking, tuned into his music blaring audibly through small white earbuds, Steve couldn't imagine why anyone would want to block out the sights and sounds of Boston. When he was younger, his family had never had the funds to venture far out of Brooklyn, so when he'd finished an ultra-classified assignment with Coulson's team three days early, he'd requested the remainder of the week to drink in the sights.

As more of the white-headphoned people passed, blissfully ignoring the architecture, the greenery, and the history, Steve shook his head sadly and pushed his way through the traffic, his ears unencumbered, taking in the short snippets of conversation he heard around him. One man must have been on the phone with his wife for he was hastily scribbling a grocery list on his arm, another was reassuring their boss she was in the elevator and she couldn't believe it had stopped on _every. single._ _floor._ on the way up to her office, a man was discussing meeting his friends at the game tonight, and yet a fourth must have been in a serious fight for she was shouting 'Colin' repeatedly at the top of her lungs.

As her voice got louder and louder, Steve stepped to his right, allowing the incensed woman to pass him by. To his surprise, the heel clicks stopped beside him and a woman huffed out "Finally!" He didn't recognize her voice and was turning to see her face when a slender hand connected with his cheek. The blow wasn't hard but the surprise was enough to whip his head around slightly.

"How dare you!" the woman shouted. Steve worked his jaw for a quick second to ensure no serious damage had been done before turning to face his assailant, a striking brunette wearing a loose-fitting blouse and sleek dress pants. She was shaking one manicured finger in his face, clearly in the middle of a tirade.

"Colin Shea, after all we've been through—all the moments we shared—I can't believe you would just leave me at my sister's wedding. It was bad enough explaining to my family why you bailed on me, but then I had to sit at the singles' table with my cousin Bradley—who isn't really my cousin, but you already knew that—and he kept making lewd faces at me throughout the toasts. My mom spent the rest of the wedding introducing me to _every_. _single_. _man_ there, wait staff included—available or not! Which I guess would have been fine if you'd had a good reason for not showing up….But, you never called me back."

She paused, her eyes flashing wildly, and allowed herself to catch her breath. "I don't know why you deserve this," she began again in a softer voice, "but I'll listen. What's your excuse? Why did you disappear off the face of the earth?"

"Pardon me, ma'am, but I think you have the wrong person," Steve began slowly. "My name is Steve Rogers. I have no idea who this Colin Shea is."

The woman's eyes widened in horror. "Oh my god," she breathed, her hands flying up to her mouth. "I'm so sorry! I just…I saw you walking and I assumed. I thought I was over you but you were standing there and the betrayal, the anger, the hurt, it was all there again. I can't believe I slapped you. Can I make it up to you? There's a Starbucks next door. Whatever you want, on me, and we can get you some ice for your cheek."

"Ma'am, there's no need for you to do that…"

She reached out and gently laid her hand on his forearm. "Please? I feel terrible."

Realizing he wasn't going to win, Steve conceded. "If you insist."

She nodded and led him to the nearby coffee shop. She instructed him to save them a table and hurried to wait in line.

"I never caught your name," Steve began when she returned with their drinks.

"Christina." She held out a towel full of ice. Steve obliged and held it to his face though he knew the mark was long gone.

"Well Christina, thank you for the coffee."

The woman's face reddened. "It's the least I can do. I'm really sorry about all that. Colin just…well, you don't want to hear about it."

"Actually I wouldn't mind," Steve replied, his gut clenching at the thought of how hurt this woman must actually be for her to lash out like that in public. This Colin character sounded like a real gem. "It'd be good to know what he's like in case I run into someone else who dated him."

The woman toyed with the zarf encircling her coffee cup. "He's not all bad. He's pretty tech savvy so he volunteered to help me out of a little misunderstanding with my previous ex. When it was over, we did the nice restaurant, the expensive dinner, the whole nine yards. I thought he was different, someone I could trust. Then he made all these promises and I never heard from him again."

This wasn't a new revelation for Steve. Back in his day, some of his classmates had been known for taking advantage of women, treating them improperly. Steve had done his best to help out when those situations had arisen and had earned more than one black eye because of it.

"I'm so sorry," he offered, knowing the words were woefully inadequate.

She waved her hand. "It's water under the bridge at this point." Then she paused. "The similarities between the two of you are incredible. Other than the clothes that is. He had like four T-shirts in his closet, each of them plastered with some sort of innuendo. You seem like a much nicer guy. I don't know of anyone else who wouldn't have called the cops when some crazy lady slaps them and starts screaming at them in the street."

"It was a misunderstanding," Steve reassured her, feeling a cool drop run down his cheek. He pulled the dripping ice pack away from his face and carefully laid it on the table.

A crisp beeping tore through the silence and the woman checked her watch. "I need to apologize to you again. I'm late for a meeting," she began as she hurriedly stood up, lifting her oversized purse onto the table and rummaging through it.

Steve sprung to his feet as he had been raised to do.

"I can't believe this," she muttered. "First I attack you then, as I want to make it up to you, I need to bail again. I'm so sorry about all this craziness." She pulled her cell phone from her bag and met Steve's gaze. "If I would have taken a second, I'd've seen that there was no way you were the same guy. Please, stay here for as long as you want. I'm friends with the barista so order whatever else you need."

"I actually have a previous engagement myself," Steve picked up his coffee and pushed in his chair. "Thank you for the coffee though."

"It was the least I could do," Christina said as they walked toward the door.

As she hurried off toward her office building, Steve paused outside the door to the coffee shop and considered his next move. If he was being honest, he wanted nothing more than to pay Shea a visit and set him straight, but he was pretty sure that would be considered stalkerish, even though he had the best intentions in mind. Still, he couldn't leave knowing there was a man here, who looked like him, stringing women along. Sure, in the modern world his actions might seem a bit chauvinistic—he was confident without a shadow of a doubt that Christina could take care of herself—but he just couldn't shake his upbringing: men were supposed to treat women with the utmost respect. He wasn't going to stand for anything less.

His mind made up, he pulled out his phone, quickly located the online equivalent of the Yellow Pages and searched for Colin Shea. There were two results: one was listed along with Mrs. Shea, so Steve assumed that wasn't the man he was looking for, and the second lived in an apartment complex that wasn't too far away, according to Google Maps. Steve looked at the travel time then consulted the digital clock on his phone before deciding he definitely had enough time to make a quick stop at Shea's before his flight left.

* * *

Steve stood outside Shea's apartment building for longer than he should have, debating whether or not he was going to go through with this. Then, the main door swung open and a man exited, followed happily by a medium-sized dog. The man didn't even so much as glance at Steve, but kicked back and caught the door with his heel, forcing it open again. The dog took this as an invitation to run back inside but the owner tugged on the leash and rasped, "C'mon Bandit! Just a quick walk today!"

Steve nodded his thanks and hurried to catch the door before it fell closed. Once inside, he looked back through the clear window and read the nameplate he had missed on the way in, noting the last name Shea in apartment 6A.

Steve turned back around and scanned the wide entrance, spying a staircase in the far corner. He quickly ascended the stairs and was on the fifth floor landing when his highly sensitive ears overheard a woman screaming "No, don't!" from the floor above him. He raced up the final flight, pausing at the top, straining to hear in what direction the sound was coming.

Then he heard a mild scuffling followed by a loud screech emanating from the apartment to his right. Concerned for the woman's safety, he crashed into the door, knocking it off its hinges. In that brief moment, Steve spotted the number and realized this was the very apartment he was searching for.

As the door flew open, Rogers saw a fully-clothed woman lying on her back in the center of a small living room. An equally-clothed man hovered over her, his back to the door, his lips on the side of her neck and his fingers moving dexterously up and down her side, focusing on a patch of exposed skin above her hip where her tank top had ridden up. In the background of the dimly lit room, what looked like wrestling was playing, but the fighters were wearing full masks, painted with bright colors. One even sported a cape.

The man jerked into motion the moment he heard the door bang open. He dove for the coffee table, reaching under it and pulling out a Glock, which he promptly trained on Steve. The woman shrieked again, this time in fear, and huddled behind the man.

That gesture in itself was fairly telling. Steve instantly threw up his hands, feeling, not for the first time, that it had been a mistake to come here.

"We're calling the police," the man said, his voice level as he clicked off the gun's safety. He nudged the woman with his elbow and she slowly grabbed her phone from the tabletop. "Unless you're out of my apartment in the next three seconds."

"I think there's been a misunderstanding," Steve replied slowly.

The man, who must have been Colin, looked mildly amused. "Do explain."

"I heard screaming and I wanted to make sure everything was alright."

"How'd you get in the building?"

"I live on the second floor, just moved in yesterday," Steve lied with practiced fluidity—Natasha and Clint had taught him well.

"Bull. I run background checks on everyone who applies to live here and set up Google alerts the moment Jackson hands you your keys."

Steve shrugged, in an attempt to showcase practiced indifference. "I was in the building and I heard screaming," he amended, not wanting to get into the whole reason he had stopped by.

"I repeat my question."

"A man with a dog, Bandit I think its name was, let me in."

"I'll believe that. He's dumber than a box of rocks. But that still doesn't explain why you wanted to get in the building in the first place."

"It was a mistake. I really shouldn't have come here."

Colin's grip on the weapon tightened. "Really not what I wanted to hear. Since you clearly have no intention of leaving, step into the light. Closer…there you go. Now, pull out your id—slowly—and toss it over here." Steve did as he was told, lobbing his S.H.I.E.L.D.-issue ID to the center of the room.

Shea didn't even look at it but passed it to the woman, who gasped the moment Steve stepped into the light from the kitchen.

"Colin, he could be your twin!" she exclaimed as she checked the ID, her head bobbing furiously.

Colin reached behind him and snatched the ID. He held it in front of his face, next to the barrel of the gun, so Steve was still in his line of sight.

"You kidding! He looks nothing like me, Ali," he said over his shoulder. "You see that hair? It went out of style before my parents were born."

He examined the ID for another moment before continuing, "Steve Rogers, S.H.I.E.L.D., huh? What are you doing in Boston?"

"Honestly?"

"Yeah, honesty would be good, right about now."

"I was finishing up an assignment and ran into one of your ex-girlfriends. She told me you two were dating, then you made her a bunch of promises like going with her to her sister's wedding and never called her back."

"So you ran over here to check me out?" Colin clarified, an amused smirk on his lips.

"I don't like people who think they can use others and get away with it."

"I didn't use her; we shared a romantic night and she left in the morning." There was a short pause. "Which ex are we talking about anyway?"

"Christina," Steve replied through gritted teeth.

Shea shook his head and shrugged.

"Tall, dark curly hair, blue eyes," the soldier continued, feeling his blood pressure rise.

"Jimmy Choos?"

Now it was Steve's turn to shake his head. "I don't know who that is."

Colin snorted. "Above your pay grade, agent." He thought for a moment then said, "I thought her name was Tiffany."

"Colin!" Ali exclaimed, slapping her boyfriend on the arm. "Is there something you need to tell me?"

"This was a long time ago, Ali. Before we were… _us_. I promise I haven't been with anyone else since your sister's wedding! Since _before_ your sister's wedding!" he clarified when Ali's glare increased in intensity.

 _Weddings seem to be a common theme here_ , Steve thought as Colin took his eyes off Steve to glance over his shoulder. "Ali, I promise. It's just you and me now."

Steve began to slowly lower his hands but froze when Colin whipped around and refocused on his target.

"You mind putting that down now?" the soldier tilted his head at the weapon.

"Not quite," Colin's expression was deadly serious again. "Who's your handler? Who would I call to confirm?"

"Agent Phil Coulson."

"Coulson," Colin said thoughtfully. "I've heard about him. Good guy. Thought he was out of commission since that whole 'aliens in New York' thing—glad to hear he's back on his feet." Colin glanced at the ID once more, examining it from multiple angles, then thumbed on the Glock's safety and placed it on the floor, still within reach and the barrel still pointed at Steve. Ali took this as a cue to lower her phone and click off the display.

"You're Captain America," Shea said after a moment, phrasing it as a statement, not a question.

Steve kept his expression blank. "What gave you that idea?"

"You burst through four reinforced deadbolts and a chain lock without breaking a sweat. Either you're juicing, which the lack of pupil dilation, extreme perspiration and erratic heartbeat contradict, or you have super strength. I'm banking on the latter."

Steve hesitated.

"That's what I thought. Your secret is safe with us, Captain," Shea stated, throwing Steve a slightly sloppy salute.

"Captain America?" Ali parroted, her eyes wide. Then she turned to Colin and swatted him on the shoulder. "You're holding up an American icon! You could have gone to jail for that!"

"Don't tell me you weren't afraid when he burst into my apartment like that, interrupting our reenactment of El Luchador v. Thunder Misterio."

"We all know I was winning until you started cheating. You know how ticklish I am!"

"Thunder Misterio wins in the end; you know that! You had to go down fighting!"

Steve, having clearly been forgotten, was content to just bow out of the conversation. Before he left though, he had one final bit of business to attend to. The door he had broken through was hanging from its bottom hinge only. While Colin and Ali continued arguing, Steve located the top hinge pin, straightened it with his hands, righted the door and slipped the pin back through the hinge.

"Wow," he heard Ali whisper. "He really is super strong. Did you see the way he straightened out that bolt? With his bare hands?"

"Hey, I could have—" Colin retorted but Ali just patted his shoulder patronizingly.

"Sure you could have, sweetie."

"I'm just going to go now," Steve muttered.

"Wait," the soldier heard flapping and turned to see his ID flying towards his face. He snatched it effortlessly out of its arc as Colin stood and walked over to the newly aligned door. "I don't mean to brag but I'm really good with the techy stuff. If you need anything, you know where I live." Colin extended his hand and, after a moment, Steve shook it.

"Thanks man," Colin continued. Steve was slightly confused by this gesture but Ali, who knew Colin's father was a police officer, understood it completely and she felt her heart swell with the selfless gift Colin had just offered.

"I'm not sure what you're thanking me for," Steve replied. "In fact, I think I owe you an apology before I go."

Colin waved his hand dismissively. "You don't need to. That was the old me—I'm not that guy anymore." He tilted his head in Ali's direction. "I've changed."

Steve read the man's facial expression and body language, and was certain Colin meant what he had said. "I believe it."

As soon as Steve had left, Colin closed his newly broken-then-fixed door and examined the locks. "Going to need to get two new deadbolts for sure. I think I can straighten out the other two." He paused. "You think I could sell these on eBay? 'Captain America tested deadbolts. Utterly useless. Sentimental value only.'"

Ali stood and walked over to the doorway. "And here I was thinking you were growing up a little, making that offer to Captain America."

"You're the one who is always complaining that I never pay for anything."

"Selling those is not the way to get there."

"You sure?" Colin grabbed Ali around the waist and swung her onto the couch, where he promptly picked up where he had left off.

"That's cheating!" Ali gasped when their lips finally parted. "You really look like him you know," she stated as he began tracing kisses down her neck.

Colin pulled away and quirked one eyebrow. "Is this really the time for that conversation?"

"It was just an observation."

"We look nothing alike."

"Tell you what: you dress up as Captain America for Halloween and see how many people get the two of you confused. If I'm right, you buy me a new blender."

"What happened to the old one?"

"You sacrificed it last weekend for authentic margaritas."

Colin's grin widened. "But wasn't it worth it?"

Ali fixed him with a firm look.

"Fine. But if I'm right and no one mistakes me for him, you have to be my date to Bandit's engagement party."

"Oh no not—"

"Nope, 4A is no longer trying to marry his dog. He's found a nice pure-breed poodle for his best friend, instead."

"You're on," Ali grinned, pressing her lips against Colin's, knowing this was a bet she was definitely going to win.

* * *

 **Thanks for reading! I'd love to know what you thought!**

 **Next up: Tony confronts Clint Barton about a certain music video he found floating around the web.**


	2. Chapter 2: Trouble

In the wee hours of the morning, Clint Barton stumbled from the elevator to the main kitchen. Still-half asleep, he slapped at the wall until he found the light switch, screwing his eyes closed as the bright light assaulted his rods. After a moment, he cautiously cracked open one eye and thankfully found the light less blinding.

He squinted at the large cabinets that stretched all the way to the other end of the kitchen and muttered a curse under his breath. All he wanted was a bowl of cereal before he had to ship out to god-knows-where to do god-knows-what for new S.H.I.E.L.D.

Still grumbling under his breath, he opened the cabinet closest to him to find stacks (and stacks) of plates, made from a variety of materials and decorated in almost every color imaginable. Hawkeye shook his head and shifted to the left, opening the second cabinet and finding it filled with the same variety of cups. He continued to make his way down the line of cabinets, snagging a purple plastic bowl when he came across it, until he found the cereal on the shelf next to the stove.

He scanned the five or six boxes (all name-brand), then snagged the Lucky Charms from the back, tearing it open and upending a large portion of the cereal into his bowl without checking the expiration date. He snagged a gallon of milk—that thankfully was not sour, chunky or expired—from the refrigerator and poured until the cereal floated ever so slightly. Realizing he didn't have a spoon, he picked a drawer at random and smiled widely when he realized it did contain the cutlery. All breakfast essentials in hand, he dropped into a barstool and waited for the milk to soften his Charms.

Suddenly, he heard muted footsteps and felt air brush by his arm. Clint immediately pulled the Glock tucked into the waistband of his flannel pajama pants and turned to his right, training his weapon in the direction of the sound.

It was only then that he saw Tony standing a few feet away, both hands raised into the air, his mouth moving furiously but his words only barely audible. Clint saw him snap his fingers twice and suddenly he could hear Tony's babbling. "—in my own kitchen too."

"You startled me," Clint clicked the safety on his weapon and swiveled back to his breakfast, leaving the gun sitting on the counter. "What are you doing up this early anyway? It's 4 AM."

"Never went to sleep." Tony eyed Clint's gun then perched on the farthest barstool and slid his tablet onto the counter.

In that brief silence, Clint realized he had heard the inventor clearly, even though he hadn't turned on his hearing aids. "How did you do that?" he demanded, turning to look at Stark.

"Do what?" Tony asked innocently. "JARVIS, coffee," he commanded and the machine in the corner chirped to life and began to bubble.

"My hearing aids. I know they weren't on this morning."

"Emergency override protocol. I don't want you ignoring me."

Clint shot Tony a dark look.

"Don't worry, it's only does that for my voice. I have to say a passphrase then snap my fingers twice. Think of it this way: your earbuds are a piece of technology that can be hacked into. Don't look so surprised! People are hacking everything these days. Some kids just published a paper about how they hacked NEST thermostat and two other guys just remotely took over a Jeep Cherokee. Should anything like that ever happen to your hearing aids, I've created a failsafe to get them back."

Clint forced himself to take a deep breath. "That makes a surprising amount of sense," he reluctantly agreed as he dragged his spoon through the Lucky Charms, determined they were finally soggy enough, and took a large bite.

"Thank you." Tony walked around the island toward the coffee maker, grabbing a mug from the third cabinet without needing to stop. "Excellent, J, as always," he enthused after pouring himself a cup and sampling it.

"Thank you sir."

In all the years Clint had known Tony, he could count on his fingers the number of times Tony had actually stayed in the kitchen after procuring a cup of coffee. Usually, the billionaire danced in for a refill, the pot already having been brewed on his way down, before heading off to "science some more stuff". This time was shaping up to be one of those exceptions, because Tony just leaned his head against the cabinets and took another pull of his coffee, not looking at all hurried.

"You're not leaving," Barton stated bluntly, after another moment had passed.

"Am I not allowed to drink _my_ coffee in _my_ kitchen? Must it _always_ be in the lab?" Tony retorted sharply.

"I kinda wanted privacy," Clint muttered as he shoveled in another spoonful of cereal.

"If you wanted privacy, you should have eaten on your own floor."

"Can't. I'm out of Lucky Charms," Clint scowled. "And milk."

"Well, we have people for that." Tony wrapped his hands around the mug and let the steam waft into his face. "Just tell them what you want and they'll buy it."

"No," Clint responded so quickly and adamantly that Tony flinched. "It's not like that," he immediately backtracked, trying to mitigate the damage he'd obviously done. "It's just that you're already doing so much for me, letting me stay here while my place is being fumigated. I need to pull my weight somehow."

"I can have Eliza buy your sugary cereal and charge you for it," Tony ventured as he refilled his half-empty mug.

Clint huffed out a laugh. "I'm perfectly capable of buying myself a box of cereal, Tony. But thanks for the offer."

Even though Tony still looked like he didn't entirely understand Clint's motivations, he nodded. "If you change your mind—"

"I'll be sure to let you know."

The archer glanced over at the tablet whose screen was still shining brightly. "You obviously knew I was in here, so did you just want company or did you want to show me something?" he asked, pointing in the tablet's direction with his spoon, unable to see the screen's contents from this angle.

"The latter." A mischievous glint came into Tony's eye and Clint instantly felt his stomach tighten. Grinning widely, Stark reached over, tapped the screen of the tablet, and tilted it in Clint's direction. Music immediately blared through the speakers and Clint groaned as he recognized the opening notes.

"It was for a mission." Clint buried his head against his crossed arms as onscreen a platinum blonde woman, wearing a black top hat, overcoat and a delicate face veil, rode into a ghost town atop a beautiful black horse.

"Sure it was," Tony snickered, barely able to contain his glee.

"Occasionally S.H.I.E.L.D. has to play nice with other federal agencies," Clint explained, his voice muffled behind his forearms. "Someone on Alicia's crew was suspected of using her tours to smuggle drugs around the US. It took a whole lot of backscratching and deal-making between the Alphabet Soup but I was finally assigned to figure out what was going on. My cover was a hair/makeup artist—circus background and all."

He sat up and took a large bite of Lucky Charms, hoping that would be the end of it.

"Aaaaaaaand?" Tony drawled, resting his elbows on the counter and framing his chin with his clenched fists.

"I was never supposed to be in the video, okay?" Clint shot back. "The main guy caught Valley Fever the night before and Alicia was desperate to find someone to replace him. We'd met the day before when she found me brushing down her horse in the middle of the night. Anyway, she asked if I'd be in the video, and in order to not blow my cover, I had to say yes."

Tony broke into a full-body laugh as the camera zoomed in on Clint's face. "That's a whole lotta guyliner," he managed between fits.

"I did the best I could to mask my features to avoid any potential matches with facial recognition software," Clint angrily swallowed another mouthful of Charms. At the time, he'd been pretty proud of that idea and wasn't pleased to hear it shot down so effortlessly.

Tony heard the sharp edge in Clint's tone and swallowed the rest of his laughter. "Has your girlfriend seen this?" Tony questioned somberly, though the corner of his mouth was still twitching into a miniature smile.

Barton took a deep breath and forced himself to not respond to Tony's underlying question. What he and Natasha were—or weren't—was none of the inventor's business.

Though the song was still playing, he turned away from the tablet and finished his Lucky Charms, downing the last of the multi-colored milk. As he walked over to the sink, he recognized the interlude and mentally braced himself, knowing what scene was coming next.

"Wow," Tony muttered, right on cue. "She's really going after it."

Clint remained silent as he began washing out the bowl, not wanting to lower himself to Tony's level. The music video was all about artistic license. Tony used the same principles when he designed a suit; Alicia had just…adopted them a little differently.

"There's just so much going on here," Tony exclaimed, and Clint knew he'd reached the final showdown.

"Yes, there was, but any day I get paid to be outdoors is a win in my book. Good bye, Tony," he said, walking toward the door as the final notes tapered off.

He had just stepped into the hallway when an evil idea struck him. "Oh and Tony?"

"Yes, Sheriff Barton?"

"Natasha was in a music video of her own," Clint stated, with a wicked gleam in his eye, knowing The Widow would put up with even fewer of Tony's questions when he finally confronted her about it.

As he walked down the hall, he could hear the sounds of furious typing, followed by Tony ordering JARVIS to scan all music videos uploaded within the past twenty years and compare them against the Avengers' reference photos. He smiled widely and might have even begun to hum the chorus under his breath, as he headed back to his room to pack for his mission.

* * *

 **Here's a link to the video if you're interested: youtube (slash) watch?v=mFu3YzRnyDU**

 **In semi-related news, I've had a lot of problems with the site over the last few weeks—disappearing images, malformed links, stories that never show up, etc—so if one of you could let me know that an actual human has seen this, I'd really appreciate it.**

 **Thanks for reading! Next up is TJ Hammond from _Political Animals_.**


	3. Chapter 3: Political Animals

**Sorry about the wait guys. I caught the cold that wouldn't quit.**

* * *

When Tony asked the team to dinner in the middle of the week, Steve knew something was up—a good something, if the happy expression on Pepper's face lately had anything to do with it. He accepted the invitation for Wednesday night and purchased a bottle of champagne to bring with, just in case.

At 7 o'clock exactly, Steve tapped on the door to the common room and readjusted his grip on the brown paper bag he was carrying. He heard sounds of the door being unlocked seconds before it flew open to reveal Pepper Potts wearing a casual blue sundress. He immediately noticed ring sparkling on her left hand, but didn't comment, so as not to ruin the surprise.

Pepper greeted him warmly and stepped aside, motioning for him to enter.

"This is for you," he said, reaching past the champagne and pulling out a bottle of red wine. "I wasn't sure what we were having, so I hope it goes with."

Pepper eyed him critically. "We've talked about this, Steve. You don't have to bring anything when you come over here; you're our guest."

He did know that—it'd been told to him many times over the last few years—but he just couldn't show up to a gathering empty-handed. So he shrugged as he always did and fixed her with his most winning smile as he held out the bottle.

She shook her head, biting back a laugh, and accepted the offering. "It'll go great with the main course. Thanks Steve."

Steve left the bag by the door and walked with Pepper into the living room, where Tony was standing behind the bar, tossing bottles in the air and catching them behind his back. He couldn't help notice how Pepper was cringing every time a bottle was airborne, leading him to believe that Tony hadn't always been this adept at it.

"The star-spangled man with a plan!" Tony grinned, then he reached under the bar and pulled a domestic beer from the lowboy.

"Hey Bruce." Steve walked over and shook hands with the physicist, who was sitting at the bar nursing a diet soda. "I thought you were still in South America."

"I heard there was free dinner so I came running," Bruce quipped, readjusting the glasses on his nose.

"That's as good a reason as any," Steve replied, leaning against the bar and taking a long swig of the bottle Tony had opened. "Good, as always." He tilted the bottle in Tony's direction, knowing the inventor received far less appreciation, in general, than he deserved. He and the rest of the team did their best to pick up the slack, without being overly obvious.

"I'm going to let the wine breathe," Pepper said as she walked into the connected kitchen.

"You guys need any help with anything?" Steve asked.

"Nah, we got it covered. You guys just hang out until everyone else gets here." Tony walked around the bar and sat on a stool. "So Cap, what's new with you?"

* * *

Thor, Natasha and Clint arrived not long after that, so the team moved into the large dining room and feasted on something called Cornish game hen paired with an assortment of vegetables Steve was still learning to love. About halfway through the meal, James Rhodes entered the room, bearing his own bottle of wine.

"Sorry I'm late," he said as he took a seat at the far end of the table. "DOD meeting ran long."

"So what are the pills on the hill up to these days?" Tony asked as DUM-E fetched Rhodey a plate.

"Nothing exciting. But they do want—" he glanced over at Pepper who was shooting him an amused look. "No shop talk at the table. Got it."

Rhodey ate at a rate that impressed even Thor and when everyone had finished, Tony and Pepper stood, both grinning widely.

"We have an announcement to make—" Tony began as he wrapped an arm around Pepper's waist, but he was immediately cut off by the Avengers erupting into loud cheering and clapping. They were instantly on their feet, slapping backs and shaking hands with Tony, while hugging and admiring Pepper's ring.

Steve felt something brush by his leg and looked down to see DUM-E roll into the room, balancing a quivering tray of champagne bottles and stemware. He bent down to steady the tray but the robot whined and rolled out of his reach, carefully sliding the tray onto the table when it was close enough. The arm then moved in what most closely resembled a satisfied nod before zipping back into the kitchen.

"You guys ruined our big reveal," Tony whined, but he couldn't keep the smile off his face for long. He popped open the bottle of champagne DUM-E had brought and distributed seven flutes. With equally large grins on their faces, the team toasted the newly engaged couple, wishing them all the best.

"Let's hear how you proposed!" Clint piped up. The team turned to him in surprise as this was never something he'd expressed interest in before. He made a face and responded, "What? Were we all waiting for Natasha to ask that question? C'mon guys, it's the 21st century."

"Honestly I was banking on Steve," Tony stated. He took another swig of champagne and began to describe in great detail the lengths he went to, to arrange the perfect proposal. He was quickly interrupted by Pepper, who informed him that he was telling it wrong, and proceeded to tell them "the real story".

She was in the middle of describing the big moment when Steve caught sight of the television playing on mute in the other room. The color instantly drained out of his face and the champagne flute dropped out of his hand, shattering as it hit the hardwood floor.

The room erupted into controlled chaos.

Both spies and Rhodey pulled guns out of seemingly nowhere while Thor extended his hand for Mjölnir; Tony forced Pepper behind him and motioned for a gauntlet while Bruce grabbed a serving tray that had been left on the table. Assorted weapons held at the ready, the Avengers scanned the room but were unable to find any threats.

"Steve, what's wrong?" Pepper asked, hurrying over to the soldier after the room had been cleared. His face was pale and he was standing completely rigidly, his eyes focused on the other room. Pepper turned to see a news report about the charity concert TJ Hammond was holding to raise money for a local LQBT organization.

As the footage switched to highlighting other members of the Barrish-Hammond family, Steve blinked and refocused on his surroundings, realizing for the first time that his friends were standing around him, all armed. "I'm so sorry," he said, though his tone lacked any real inflection. He immediately crouched down and began to pick up the larger pieces of glass.

Tony wrapped an arm around Steve's bicep and tried to pull him to his feet. "We have robots for that. DUM-E." He clicked his teeth and pointed at the mess. The robot chirped excitedly and rolled away, returning a moment later with a broom and dustpan. "What the hell happened?" Stark asked, tugging again on Steve's arm.

The soldier glanced up, his eyes still unusually wide, as he stood slowly, mechanically, his hands fisted in his khaki pants. "I thought I recognized someone," he said quietly. He glanced over at the TV, which had switched to reviewing the outcomes of the day's sporting events.

"Barnes," Natasha stated softly, having seen the end of the clip before it ended. She turned back around as she spoke, so she would be able to gauge Steve's reaction.

"Yeah," Steve replied. He took a deep breath and forced himself to relax. "It's not him, obviously, but it just took me by surprise." He turned to face Tony. "I'll get you a—"

"You'll do no such thing," Pepper interjected, as Stark motioned for JARVIS to cut the television feed. "It was Tony's least favorite set anyway."

Steve saw Tony roll his eyes behind Pepper's back and, before he could try to make himself smile, Pepper had already spun around and swatted Tony on the arm. "I saw that."

"I think it's a great time to bring in the desert," Bruce piped up. He walked toward the kitchen and returned holding a two-layer cake with "Congratulations" written on it in beautiful calligraphy.

"Oh you guys," Pepper exclaimed, her hands flying to her face in surprise. "I'd ask how you knew but—"

"Super spies," Clint pointed to Natasha and himself. After a split second, he pointed in Rogers' direction. "Steve too."

"Science bro," Bruce continued.

"I heard stirrings from Jane," Thor added. "She was most excited and sends her best."

Rhodey just shrugged. "He ran the whole plan by me first. You should have seen the first draft."

Pepper's eyes widened with amusement but Tony shot Rhodey a death glare and turned back to Pepper. "I got it right in the end, didn't I?"

As Pepper nodded, Steve took another breath and forced a smile on his face. "We really are so happy for you," he added with almost believable brightness. "You two are perfect for each other."

While the rest of the Avengers voiced their agreement, Tony pulled Pepper in for a quick kiss.

"The cake's melting," Clint interjected, as the kiss continued past what he deemed acceptable. "It's an ice cream cake. Neapolitan, sans strawberry because Pepper is allergic, with brownie crumbles. Little something for everyone."

The happy couple broke apart. "Why don't you hurry up and slice it then?" Pepper suggested with a laugh.

Clint shook his head. "You two are supposed to cut it. Together. At least, that's what they always show in the movies." He walked over to the doorway where he had dropped his gear and pulled out a large butcher's knife, which he had secured in paper towels and rubber bands. He quickly unwrapped it and held the handle out to Tony, his head bowed theatrically.

Tony rolled his eyes but accepted the knife. Pepper wrapped her hand around his and they swiftly cut the cake into several large pieces. It was as good as Clint said and was gone in minutes. They then sat down with coffee and the extra bottle of champagne Steve had brought and talked about Pepper and Tony's upcoming plans: when they were going to announce, what they were thinking for their wedding, their honeymoon, and the like. Thor was captivated, having not experienced a Midgardian wedding before; Clint piped in with details he had seen on TV; and even Steve offered his experiences from the 40s with the caveat that they were probably all terribly out of date.

The conversation then gravitated toward more into everyday topics and after about an half an hour, Steve disappeared. The rest of the team noticed immediately but continued with their party, more tensely than before. When he hadn't returned after fifteen minutes, Natasha stood.

"You want me to go with?" Clint lifted himself out of his chair and the others looked ready to do the same.

Natasha shook her head and motioned for the team to stand down. They didn't want to spook Rogers right off the bat; he'd been through enough tonight already. While Clint proceeded to ask Rhodey about his latest mission, now that dinner was over, Natasha walked down the long hallway parallel to the dining room, toward the closest room with a television. She stood outside for a moment, able to hear the buzz of the television in the background, but no sounds from Steve. She quietly opened the door and poked her head in, hoping she'd find the soldier asleep but suspecting otherwise.

Steve was sitting on the bed, staring eagerly at the television, which cast a pale light over his drawn features.

She tapped on the doorframe. "Can I come in?"

Without looking away from the TV, Steve shrugged.

She sat on the bed beside him, watching a replay of the earlier news broadcast. TJ was being interviewed about what had been going on in the last few years, when he'd dropped out of the limelight despite his mother's prominent position in the State Department. TJ was slouching slightly in the news chair but his face seemed bright and animated, his eyes unclouded.

"My first big concert really was a perfect storm of coincidence," he was saying. "Their original pianist had dropped out due to prior family obligations. I only had three weeks to prepare." He laughed easily. "I rehearsed for days on end so I would be able to do the piece justice. I'm pretty sure my mom and grandma were humming it in their sleep when I was finished."

The segment flashed to a cell phone video of him playing in a classy restaurant, his fingers flying over the keys, hitting not a single sour note, while the paid pianist stood next to him, nodding in approval. After about ten seconds, the footage then switched to discussing what the other Hammond family members were up to: Elaine had just announced she was running for president after Ellis' term was up, while Douglas and Anne were expecting their first child. Not much had been recently reported about Bud, which was odd to say the least.

"How much do you know about politics from the nineties?" Natasha asked gently.

"Bud Hammond was the 42nd president, served two terms," Steve recited in an almost mechanical tone. "I knew he was married and had two children but I know more about what he stood for and what he accomplished than I do his family. It doesn't feel right prying into their private lives, especially when the publicity wasn't their choice."

"The presidency was rough on both the Hammond kids," Natasha said, resting her hand on Steve's shoulder. "The camera was always more focused on TJ, who came out publically in 1994. He was a big partier and quickly moved onto the hard drugs. He battled addiction for years and was in and out of rehab, always in the camera's eye. When he accidentally OD'ed on cocaine in 2012, he apparently went straight and has been pretty quiet since. His brother Douglas was always more media-shy. He did well in school and quickly ascended to his mother's chief of staff. I'm sure he has his own set of issues from his time in the White House, but they're not as well known as TJ's."

"He could have been Bucky's twin," Steve murmured, glancing at Natasha for the first time since she entered the room.

She hated the phrase "I know," so she just nodded. She had seen pictures of Barnes from the 40s when she'd called in a favor with her contacts in Kiev but it hadn't occurred to her that the two looked so much alike until Steve had brought it up this evening. He was right though: the resemblance was uncanny.

Steve nodded a few times, as if convincing himself of something, then turned back toward the television.

"Bucky didn't have a musical bone in his body," he commented softly when recycled footage of young TJ playing in his first concert came on screen. "Ms. Jefferson across the street used to give me lessons in exchange for my momma helping her out when her kid got sick. One time I took Bucky with. He was awful." A small laugh escaped Steve's lips, surprising even him. "I don't even think Ms. Jefferson could have helped him. He liked listening to me play though."

Natasha slowly dragged her hand down Steve's back, pausing at his waist in case he wanted her to stop. When he leaned back into her touch ever so slightly, she proceeded to rub wide circles into his back, knowing better than to reassure him that they would find Bucky and that everything would turn out alright. She had been through too much to always believe in that.

"You know Tony has a piano," she spoke up after a moment.

"I do." Steve shook his head sadly. "It just doesn't seem right...That's not who I am anymore."

"You deserve to be happy, Steve. And if playing the piano makes you happy, you should do it."

"Maybe," Steve conceded. "But not today."

 _Fair enough._ "Why don't you come back out?" she offered after the newscasters had switched to the closing 'good news' news. "Tony's probably discussing his latest invention by now and setting a new record for Clint and Thor's eyes glazing over."

Steve huffed out an unenthusiastic laugh and ran a hand through his hair. "Wasn't exactly how Tony and Pepper thought their announcement would go, huh?"

"Well, the Tower hasn't been attacked this month, so that was always a possibility. Between you and me, I think this was the preferred option."

The corner of Steve's mouth lifted ever so slightly. "Give me a second?"

"Sure, Steve." She kissed him on the cheek, then walked out of the room, leaving the door slightly ajar. True to his word, Steve followed after another moment and rejoined the conversation with a surprising amount of enthusiasm.

While he was present, the team did their best to pretend to not be worried about Steve, knowing how he hated the attention, but after everyone had left and Pepper headed to bed, Tony hurried down to his lab, pulled up a picture of the Hammond kid, and used it to update the scans he had running, in an attempt to help Steve locate his childhood friend.

* * *

 **Next up, Dylan Rhodes from _Now You See Me_.**

 **Thanks for reading! I'd love to know what you thought!**


	4. Chapter 4: Now You See Me

"There is no such thing as magic," Tony repeated for the umpteenth time, as a contingent of the Avengers flew into Las Vegas.

"The bank was robbed in Paris while the Horsemen were performing in the MGM," Hill explained. "They either have amazing timing or they managed to open a portal of some sort."

Tony shook his head. "Are we sure the bank was actually robbed?"

"See for yourself." She motioned with her hand toward the holotable. Tony started typing furiously, pulling up article after article. "I guess it's legit," he reluctantly admitted after a moment.

"So what do you want us to do?" Steve asked, glancing up from the mission briefing Maria had distributed.

"I need you, Stark and Banner to ensure that there is no real magic at play here. Once you've done that, we can turn the case over to the FBI."

"How are we going to determine if magic was in fact used?"

Hill shrugged. "That's what you guys are here for."

The holotable beeped and Tony swiped right to accept the video call. "We're here in France," Banner stated as his face, which looked slightly green, appeared on the large screen. "Barton has no concept of the speed limit, which makes no sense in the sky, I know."

"Barton," Tony tsk-ed. "You know Brucie doesn't like flying."

"How else were we going to get here at the same time you were? In case you haven't checked lately, Paris is a lot farther away than Vegas."

The video bounced and Natasha's face sharpened into view. "I'm flying home, don't worry."

"We'll be touching down soon as well," the pilot of the Vegas quinjet called from the cockpit.

Steve stood up from his seat and leaned over the holotable. "Stay in touch Romanov. Let us know what you find."

Natasha nodded her agreement. "Keep Tony out of trouble," she said with a wicked grin.

Before Stark could fire back a snappy retort, the feed cut to black.

"Well she's not—" Before Steve could finish, the nose of the quinjet dipped slightly. In a burst of what could only be called superspeed, Steve had taken his seat and had the belt fasted snugly around his waist in under three seconds. As Tony walked more slowly toward the seat across the aisle, he noticed just how tightly Rogers' hands gripped the armrests and how rigidly he was sitting in his seat.

"It'll be fine, Cap," Tony muttered, changing his mind at the last minute and sitting next to his teammate. "Jones is one of the best pilots SHIELD has. I know—I checked him out this morning."

"Great," Steve snapped, his fingers leaving indents in the arm rests as the nose of the plane dipped sharply.

Tony balked, falling silent as he found himself in an incredibly unusual situation; after Afghanistan and more recently after flying a nuke into space, he was usually the one who had freaked out seemingly mundane things like standing water or pruning shears, but Pepper had always been by his side, guiding him through it, even when they weren't yet a couple. Now as he found himself watching Steve struggle with one of his demons, he realized he hadn't the slightest clue how to handle this. "Just breathe," he parroted numbly.

Steve shot him an incredulous look, which quickly disappeared as the plane dipped sharply and he screwed his eyes closed. "Breathe? Really?" he ground out, his face losing some of its already pale coloring.

"I'm adapting the stuff they make you say in Pepper's yoga classes," Tony continued, well aware that he had probably far overstepped his limits. "Lots of inhaling and exhaling. Picturing yourself on a cloud, being the captain of your fate, and all that jazz."

The plane ground to a stop against the tarmac and Steve clenched his fists so tightly that he crushed the armrests. As the propellers wound down, he slowly opened his eyes, focusing on the aisle so as to not make eye contact with Stark. He wasn't quick enough though to stop the inventor from seeing what looked like shame flit across his face.

When Jones had finally killed the engine, Hill stood and surveyed the crumpled armrests. "Only minor damage this time. You're getting better, Steve," she acknowledged with a small, placating smile.

Tony fixed the SHIELD agent with a scathing glare. "What do you mean _better_? You mean this happens all the time and haven't done anything about it yet?"

"I'm working on it," Steve snapped as he rose to his feet and did his best to straighten out the armrests. He quickly realized this was a losing battle, as the metal had been crushed beyond salvation, and straightened up. "Just forget about it, Stark," he muttered as he hurriedly walked toward the exit hatch.

Tony bristled as Steve reverted to using his last name, a tactic only employed when he wanted the inventor to leave well-enough alone. Tony exhaled through his teeth, but did as Cap asked, _temporarily_ dropping the subject of Steve's fear of flying, or more appropriately, landing.

* * *

The two Avengers and Hill pushed passed the crowds covering almost every square inch of the MGM and made their way to the main auditorium, where they were let through the police tape after Hill flashed her assistant director's badge.

They walked quickly to the stage, where Tony lowered the briefcase he'd been carrying to the ground and clicked it open. The briefcase contained what looked like two parabolic mics, as well as a small rectangle with a propeller on one end. There was also a tablet strapped to the lid for viewing the data in the field. The equipment had been loaned to him by Jane Foster, who had taught both him and Bruce how to work it, and what to look for in the results.

"So how does this trick really work?" Steve asked, after taking a lap around the stage.

"None of the Horseman would say without a warrant," Hill said, still typing furiously on her tablet. "But we were contacted by someone named Thaddeus Bradley, who apparently debunks magic tricks for a living. He said this contraption just drops you through the floor." She pointed to the large vertical accordion on stage, with a thin transparent sheet connecting the top and bottom.

"Isn't this all pointing to a lot of 'not magic'?" Tony asked, standing the small rectangle on end in the middle of the stage. The propeller immediately began spinning and the green light in its base flashed wildly.

"Unless Bradley's in on it," Steve replied as he stepped closer to the prop that had "magicked" Étienne Forcier across the Atlantic. He pulled a set of gloves from the backpack he was carrying and carefully felt the base of the prop, his nimble fingers locating the release for the trapdoor, which swung open then closed in only a few seconds. "I'm going to check what's underneath. I assume that's the vault?"

Hill nodded.

Steve scanned the auditorium, spying a stairwell even further behind the stage. Before he headed in that direction though, he picked up one the parabolic devices from Dr. Foster's kit and, after ensuring that it was indeed charged, he disappeared into the stairwell, followed not long afterwards by Hill.

Tony then picked up the second "mic", clicked it on, and slowly spun it in a circle, holding it away from his body much like he would hold a handgun. After it had beeped three times, Tony walked over to the teleportation prop and ran the mic along all its supporting structures, focusing on the trapdoor and the underside of the top block. When the device had beeped in triplicate again, Tony walked back to his briefcase, plugged the parabolic into the tablet via the mini-HDMI cable hidden in its grip, and allowed the data to upload. The other piece of equipment fell silent not long after, so Tony brought it over to the briefcase and plugged it in when the parabolic had finished.

He waited while the data was collated, then unstrapped the tablet from the lid and examined the results. When he'd reached a conclusion, he forwarded his findings to Bruce, then dialed his colleague using the SpaceTime app.

"What do you think?" he asked, as soon as the physicist's face, much less green this time, appeared.

"I'm not seeing any residual energy," Bruce said, paging through the results on his own tablet. "It's only been a few hours since the actual event so we'd expect to see _something_ in either location, granted in very low levels, if this was real."

"I agree. Anything on your end?"

"No. The vault is empty, as expected. Security footage shows no disturbances and my readings came up just as empty as yours." Tony's phone beeped and he clicked away from the video chat app to pull up his email and page through Bruce's results. Just as the physicist had said, there was no sign of any of the factors Dr. Foster associated with magic, extraterrestrial or otherwise.

"The bank is calling all its patrons with safety-deposit boxes to come inspect their belongings, but no one has reported anything else as missing yet. Clint and Natasha are still looking around, but I'd hazard a guess now that this was not a portal."

"That is great news," Maria Hill said from right behind Tony, startling him.

"Did you find anything downstairs?"

"An exact replica of the vault in Paris. The vault itself is fake, as are all the security-deposit boxes. It's just a room with one entrance/exit and a trapdoor in the ceiling." Steve handed the device to Tony, who quickly uploaded its data. Then Stark clicked back to the video chat and shared his screen with Banner as the results came up.

"Nothing," Bruce said, after a moment.

"I agree. A trifecta of nothing. No magic here," Tony reiterated.

"Excellent," Hill said. "Wheels up in five." At that moment, her Bluetooth chirped and she pressed her hand to her ear, her expression immediately sobering. "Yes, director," she began as she walked away.

Their part in this case officially completed, Tony knelt down and began securing the rectangular device and the two mics inside the briefcase. Jane's overeager intern Darby…Delancy…something like that, had threatened to tase him within an inch of his life if he ruined any of them. Normally threats like that wouldn't bother him, but Thor had chimed in with the tale of how he'd met the feisty intern. In the end, Tony had decided not to piss off the intern, so they would be in good standing if (or when, at this rate) another situation like this arose.

As he shut down the tablet and strapped it into the case, he heard heavy footsteps approaching. He waited for Steve's normally prompt greetings of the fellow law enforcement agents, but his teammate didn't speak until the footsteps were practically on stage.

"Hello," he finally heard the soldier say, a beat later. "I'm—"

"I know who you are, Captain." At the sound of the very familiar voice, Tony looked over his shoulder to see a familiar mass of dark-hair. His curiosity now piqued, he snapped closed the briefcase then turned fully to see the new arrival. He too was shocked into silence by the familiar face staring back at him.

"Tell me what you have," the man demanded brusquely, walking past them and examining the teleportation device for himself.

"I'm sorry, who are you?" Steve questioned, doing his best to keep his tone polite and friendly, though his micro expressions were anything but.

"Dylan Rhodes, FBI," the man said, craning his neck to look at the top of the prop. When Steve didn't immediately elaborate on their findings, Rhodes sighed and pulled out his badge, flashing it at them. "No offense, Cap, but I don't have all day. Did you find anything—"

He was cut off as Tony, whose brain had finally shifted into a working gear. He'd quickly closed the distance between himself and the FBI agent, and gripped the agent's cheek between his thumb and forefinger, jiggling it much as an elderly woman would do to a young child. He was watching for any indication that this was a mask, or that the man in front of him was a hologram, not unlike the ones Loki had been known for.

"Stark!" Steve shouted, pulling his teammate back. "I am sorry about that," he apologized to Rhodes, who looked even more cross than he had when he first walked in. Though the man's face and build were familiar, both teammates were realizing that the expressions were all wrong: Rhodes looked permanently annoyed, his lips pursed into a thin line and anger and frustration radiating from his every move. Banner's posture was always more relaxed, more curves than angles, and his expression was more absent than harsh.

"You look very similar to one of our acquaintances," Stark explained, freeing himself from Steve's iron grip. Though he probably hadn't needed to say anything, he was careful to keep Bruce's name out of the conversation. General Ross had been rather quiet these days, but Bruce's identity and current location still needed to be handled with the utmost secrecy. "Given some of the crazy things I've seen lately, you'll forgive me if I had to check for myself."

To his credit, Rhodes snorted and shook his head, his expression softening for the first time since he'd walked in. "I can't imagine what your line of work is like." Just as quickly as the almost human expression had appeared though, it left, replaced by flinty eyes and a permanent look of displeasure. He looked back to the teleportation device and slowly practically barked, "Don't worry, Captain. I won't press charges. I would like to know what you found though."

"Nothing," Tony said, matching the man's gruff tone. "The case is all yours, detective." And if he wasn't mistaken, Rhodes actually looked disappointed.

"Okay," the man sighed, scrubbing his hand over his face. "Get the squints in here. I'm going to go interview the Horsemen." He said the last word with a grimace. "If that's everything gentlemen…" Rhodes didn't finish his sentence and instead motioned toward the door, obviously hoping they'd understood his underlying message.

"Of course, detective," Steve responded curtly. They quickly packed up the case and walked out of the auditorium, but not before Tony had snapped a picture of Rhodes and sent it to Bruce.

Hill was already sitting in the quinjet, browsing yet another file on her tablet. As soon as Tony and Steve were aboard, Jones immediately fired up the quinjet's propellers and they had lifted off within minutes.

Tony kept shooting Steve side-long glances during the takeoff, but the soldier just leaned his head back, his face free of any worry lines and his hands resting loosely in his lap. As much as Tony didn't want to disturb him, there was something he had been wanted to say to Steve, ever since he'd found out about the whole landing situation, and he needed to get it out into the open before he changed his mind.

"You know, if you ever want to talk about this," Tony quickly began, drumming his fingers against the crunched armrest. "I can give you a few names. Or you can talk to me—but I'd seriously be doubting your life choices that point. If that's really the path you want to take, though, I promise to listen to you past the elevator in Bern." Steve opened his eyes and rolled his head to the right to look directly at Stark, his eyebrows furrowing slightly in perceived confusion. "Or if you want to try for desensitization, I know a guy who will practice touch-and-gos until he's blue in the face for Captain America," Tony continued in a rush.

Steve's mouth twisted into a close approximation of a smile. "Thanks, Tony. But I'm gonna see if I can get through it on my own."

Tony shook his head. "Noble, Cap, but this isn't like the 40s. It's okay to ask for help."

"I know." This time Steve's smile was small but genuine.

They sat in an awkward silence for a moment before Rogers reached for a gossip magazine someone had left in the seatback pocket and Tony hurried to pull out his laptop to investigate the life of one Dylan Rhodes.

About ten minutes later, Stark's phone buzzed.

"Who is he?" Bruce asked, cutting right to the chase, the second Tony picked up.

"An FBI agent. He's real, before you ask. I have a full work-up going back to his baby pictures."

"That is…unexpected."

"Unexpected, yes, but also kinda cool. We've met Cap's doppelganger, and now yours. Do you think there's a bonafide, not-surgically-altered Tony Stark look-alike out there?"

"For the world's sake, I hope not," Bruce deadpanned.

"Hurtful, Brucie. Hurtful. I'll have JARVIS keep an eye on him, make sure he's on the up-and-up, but everything so far seems legit."

"Thanks Tony."

"There's a lot of that going around lately," Hill commented from the back of the plane. Before Tony could shoot back a response, she had accepted yet another phone call, this time with the Council.

"Anytime Bruce," the inventor said, turning back to the call. Bruce nodded gratefully, relief visible on his face as he ended the call.

A few seconds later, Steve snapped the magazine shut and shoved it back in the seat pocket, almost tearing the soft cover in the process. "Not all things are better in the future," he commented as he scrubbed at his eyes.

Tony just grinned, waiting until Steve had opened the book Maria had tossed him, before he going back to learning everything he could about the new Rhodey in his life.

* * *

 **Sorry about the wait. The next chapter, Carl Casper and Molly from _Chef_ , will be up much more quickly!**


	5. Chapter 5: Chef

"Where are we going?" Pepper asked as she peered out the window of Tony's private jet. They were in Los Angeles for the week, checking on the West Coast branch of SI. That afternoon, Tony had hurried into her office and told her to put on that nice dress he knew she'd brought with; they were going out for dinner and needed to leave within the hour. Luckily, said dress went well with the make-up she had applied that morning so it wasn't long at all before they were taking off in Stark's jet.

"Brentwood," the billionaire said, reclining in his plush chair and sipping at a tumbler of scotch.

"What exactly is in Brentwood?"

"That's part of the surprise, Pepper."

"Brentwood doesn't even have an airport, Tony."

"Correct, we're flying into Stockton, then driving over."

"In what car?"

Tony sat up and stared at Pepper. "You're ruining the magic of the surprise, Pep."

Pepper glanced over her shoulder at her boyfriend. "Alright Tony. We'll do this your way."

"Thank you," Tony nodded his head then sank back into his incredibly soft chair.

There was silence for a few moments.

"Can I at least get the name of the restaurant?"

"Pepper," Tony groaned, sitting up again and pressing the cool glass to his forehead.

"Fine, fine," the redhead lifted her hands in mock surrender. "I won't ask another question."

 _Right,_ Tony thought _. Five, four, three, two—_

"Okay, just the name of the restaurant. That's all I want to know."

Tony quirked an eyebrow in her direction, biting his bottom lip to keep from grinning.

"You know I'm not good with not knowing," Pepper pointed a well-manicured finger at him accusingly.

"Fine. I'll bite. We're going to Gauloise. But that's all you get." Tony reclined yet a third time, but remained alert, in case Pepper had more questions. When he heard her typing on her phone, he cautiously lowered his head against the headrest, hoping he'd finally get some rest on this flight.

"Aha!" Pepper exclaimed, a few moments later.

Tony shot upright, the contents of his drink sloshing over the side of the glass. "Aha what?" he grumbled, wiping scotch off his face.

"You want to watch that chef confront that food critic." Normally, food reviews weren't something that made it into her local news watching, but the Twitter repartee between Chef Carl Casper, of Galouise, and the food blogger from the Digital Palate had gone viral. Apparently Casper's son had set up the account and Casper, not knowing exactly how it worked, had publicly tweeted an inciting message instead of responding to it privately. The internet had considered this a proverbial gauntlet and were clamoring over the results of tonight's review.

"Welllll," Tony shrugged, with a noncommittal expression. "It's also supposed to have the best chocolate lava cake in the States," he quickly added when Pepper shot him a glare.

"And here I thought you were being romantic."

"It is—I mean, I am! It's supposed to be a nice restaurant and we haven't been out, just you and me, in a while, so I thought we could kill two birds with one stone."

"That's all I am to you?" Pepper arched an eyebrow, an amused expression on her face. "A bird?"

Tony rubbed at his left eye, trying to dissolve the ache that was quickly building up behind it. "Pep, you know what I meant."

"I did." She crossed her arms over her chest and stared at him expectantly.

"I'm sorry?" Tony phrased it as a question, not a statement, in case he had read the situation incorrectly.

"Nothing to be sorry about yet," she finally said, a small smile crossing her face. "As long as that lava cake is as good as you say."

* * *

"That's the line to get in?" Pepper asked in disbelief, an hour and a half later, as they turned onto the street behind Gauloise. Hundreds of people were lined up all the way around the block, hoping to score a table before the food ran out.

"Yup," Tony slammed on the breaks as someone darted in front of their car to get a spot in line. "Luckily we have reservations."

"How did you swing that?"

"Let's just say I made a very generous donation," Tony grinned.

Moments later, he pulled into the valet space and hurried over to Pepper's side of the car, cutting off the valet, whose jaw literally dropped open when he realized who the car's occupants were. Tony swiftly opened the passenger side door and he leaned his head in. "Admit it, you're curious," he prompted, his eyes sparkling with excitement.

"Maybe a little." Pepper returned his grin, then took his hand and slid out of the car.

"No Ferris Bueller-ing," Tony instructed as he tossed the valet the keys. "It's a rental."

"Absolutely not, Mr. Stark," the kid stammered as he slid behind the wheel.

"After you," Tony motioned for Pepper to lead the way through the crowd.

"Hey, it's Iron Man!" Someone shouted and, within seconds, the crowd thronged around them instead of letting them pass.

"Excuse me, let them through. Let them through!" A shorter man shouted from the door of the restaurant, as he attempted to push his way toward his VIPs. Unable to get through the crowd, he raised his voice. "Please, guests, let Mr. Stark and Ms. Potts through. You'll all have your turn tonight to experience Chef Casper's creations." The crowd reluctantly parted and the shorter man ushered them into the restaurant.

"Let me begin by saying, it's a pleasure having you both dine with us," the man continued once the doors had closed behind them. "My name is Riva and I am the owner and manager of this establishment." He held out his hand.

"We've only heard good things," Pepper went to shake his hand, but he grabbed hers and drew it to his mouth where he laid a soft kiss on it. The kiss lingered a bit too long for Tony's liking, but Riva eventually let go and turned to shake Tony's hand.

"Thanks for getting us in on such short notice," Stark said shortly.

"Chef Casper has prepared an amazing menu tonight!" Riva exclaimed. "Molly will direct you to your seat and discuss wine pairings. I am going to check on Chef Casper and will be swinging by your table shortly with the bottle of your choice."

"We look forward to it," Pepper said warmly.

As they waited for the hostess to arrive, she turned to Tony. "How do you know when the critic is going to be here?"

"I know a guy who knows a guy who knows a gal who knows the critic personally. He's coming at 7."

"Mr. Stark? Ms. Potts?" A sultry voice called out. They looked up to see a dark-haired woman with thick bangs wearing an embroidered top approaching.

"Natasha?" Pepper asked, before she was able to stop herself. Other than the hair color and the tattoo of a single star on her right shoulder, the woman was a dead ringer for the Black Widow.

The dark-haired woman looked over her shoulder, then back at Pepper. "Um, no. Sorry Ms. Potts. My name is Molly, I'll be your host for the evening."

 _She must be undercover,_ Tony thought. He hadn't seen her or Clint at the Tower for a while and Fury had been oddly radio silent.

"Riiiight." Tony winked dramatically but that was his only concession to her real identity. " _Molly_. We'll follow you."

Pepper by this time had recovered and masked her initial surprise. "Yes, of course. My mistake. I do apologize."

"No need, Ms. Potts," Molly said warmly, as she led them to a table. Once they were seated, she proceeded to showcase the wine list and offer her opinion, based on the courses they'd be dining on. Once they'd made a choice, she told them Riva would be by with their bottle shortly and to let her know if they needed anything.

"She looks just like our Natalie, doesn't she?" Pepper laughed, using her code name just in case Natasha's target was nearby.

"Sure does," Tony replied. He pulled out his phone and typed a message to the master spy: _Working hard or hardly working? Can always scrub in if need be_.

As he was putting down his phone, Riva appeared with the wine bottle and engaged them in conversation as he poured them both generous helpings. He could only spare a few moments, it turned out, before Natasha/Molly politely interrupted and pulled Riva to the other side of the restaurant, where a long-haired man was complaining about his appetizer.

"So where is the critic?" Pepper asked, discretely taking a glance around the full restaurant.

"Your twelve o'clock," Tony responded as he took a bite of the caviar egg their server had just dropped off. "And his name is Ramsey Michel. When you keep saying "The Critic" you make it sound like he's a mob boss or an assassin." Out of the corner of his eye, he was also keeping an eye on Natasha/Molly, who breezed through the room, collecting plates and refilling glasses, doing whatever was required to keep the customers happy. He saw her approach Michel but was cut off by Riva, bearing a new bottle of wine.

"Interesting," he commented, judging by the unimpressed look on Michel's face.

"Isn't this what Chef Casper served last time?" Pepper asked as the server came by with the scalloped French onion soup.

"I believe so," Tony's grin widened. "This is definitely going to get interesting. Aren't you glad we came, now?"

Pepper shook her head affirmatively as she took the final bite of her caviar and handed the holder to their waiter.

The tension was obviously building in the restaurant and, as soon as Ramsey was served the lava cake, Tony knew something major was about to happen. Even the normally unflappable Natasha/Molly was looking concerned. From across the room, Tony saw her eyes widen as she finished a phone call and tapped Pepper's foot with his. "Turn around now."

Pepper did as he instructed. "Why?" she said, seeing only the other guests continuing with their meals.

At that moment, a man burst through the door and Tony, upon recognizing him, almost spit out the wine he'd been sipping.

"Happy?" he sputtered after he'd swallowed. "What the hell is going on here?"

As Happy stepped into the light, Tony noticed the tattoos running up and down his arms, including a large chef's knife on his right forearm, and a goatee the real Happy would never be caught sporting. "So, not Happy," he surmised. Still, he pulled out his phone and dialed his friend.

"What's up boss?" the real Happy said just as not-Happy, and most presumably Chef Carl Casper, began reaming out Michel with a profanity-laden rant.

"What are you doing right now?" Tony demanded.

"Eating Kraft Mac'N'Cheese and getting caught up on my shows. Why?"

"You're having a meltdown," Tony deadpanned, without taking his eyes off the scene in front of him.

"I'm what?"

"Turn on the video."

Happy grumbled but managed to switch on the video feed.

"Holy shit," he swore.

"I know right?" Tony began excitedly. "He looks just like—"

"You're at Gauloise and you didn't invite me? I've been trying to get in there for months. And you went the night Ramsey Michel is going to be there."

"Happy, I'm sorry. Next time you're more than invited but look at—"

"Carl Casper didn't even cook the food you're eating tonight?"

"What?" Tony tuned back into the rant. "Oh, I guess not, but Happy—"

"What a shame. Guess we'll actually have to go back one—"

"Happy!" Tony hissed, drawing a sharp glare from Pepper. "Look at him."

"Tall, good-looking, lots of tats, great chef. What more do you want me to say?"

"He looks just like you."

Happy squinted at the screen. "No way, Tony. He's got like 50 pounds on me. And that goatee? It went out years ago."

Tony let out a deep sigh and looked to the ceiling, asking for patience. "Other than that."

"I mean, I guess there are some similarities. How much wine have you—Oh shit!" Carl just reached into the lava cake at Michel's place setting and tore it apart.

"IT'S MOTLEN! IT'S SUPPOSED TO BE MOLTEN!" the chef shouted as he pulled out the center and threw it onto Michel's table.

Suddenly Riva hurried over. "Mr. Stark, I ask that you not film this please. Chef Casper is just having a bad day."

"Of course," Pepper turned around and shot Tony a look.

"Gotta go, Hap," Tony said as he turned off the video. "Call you in the car."

* * *

"Well, that was entertaining," Tony commented as he slid behind the wheel of their rental.

"And delicious. Even though Chef Casper wasn't cooking, the food was divine, the lava cake included."

"So was it worth the trip?"

Pepper nodded. It was very cliché, but in that moment Tony was struck by how beautiful she looked and couldn't help leaning over and kissing her. "I'm glad," he said, his mouth still against hers.

They were interrupted by Tony's phone beeping. He pulled away with a groan and fished his phone out of his pocket.

It was a text from Natasha: _What are you talking about Stark? I'm in the Bahamas on vacation. Won't be back until Tuesday._

Tony passed his phone to Pepper, who quickly read the text.

"Are we in the Matrix?" he asked after she'd read it for the second time. "Did I fall asleep watching the Twilight Zone?"

"No," Pepper said, drawing out the last syllable.

"I mean, that's weird right?"

"Yeah, but you were the one who considered proving that everyone in the world actually had a twin."

"I would have been successful too. Those damn peer reviewers," Tony groused, drumming his fingers against the wheel.

"Well, you did only submit pictures of people who looked like Steve and Bruce."

"In the opening. Then I went on to describe the possibility of two people sharing the same features as a combinations problems, but they just weren't satisfied. There's real math there!"

Pepper, with her vast years of experience dealing with Tony, knew he wasn't really upset. He hadn't worked for more than a day on that paper before submitting it, letting "the chips fall where they may". It had been a welcome distraction in the weeks after the removal of the reactor and he'd actually been on some fairly heavy pain meds at the time, so she was more than a little surprised the paper read coherently.

Tony just shook his head and started the car. As they turned back onto the CA-4, Tony's phone began to blare the theme from _Downtown Abbey_. Without looking away from the road, he tossed the phone to Pepper, who accepted the call and put it on speakerphone.

"I still can't believe you went without me," Happy stated, looking dejectedly at the camera.

"Happy, when Casper figures out his next step—since he's obviously not working at Gauloise anymore—you can take the weekend off and fly to wherever he is, on our dime, and eat his food for two days straight," Tony said loudly and Pepper, though initially surprised by the offer, chimed in with her agreement.

"Thanks boss—I mean bosses. I'd really appreciate that."

"Was there anything else you wanted to ask us?" Pepper asked, a smile flitting across her lips.

"No, that's about it. I'll be waiting for you on the tarmac at midnight."

"You're the man," Tony declared, before Happy disconnected the call.

* * *

A few weeks later, Happy took them up on their offer and flew out to New Orleans to visit the El Jefe food truck. Even though Tony and Pepper had both heard that the truck would end up back in northern California where Casper would run it permanently, they both knew that Happy deserved a vacation, especially after the events of the last few months. They secretly extended his stay to a week and put him up at the Hotel Mazarin. Happy had originally declined their offer, citing that they were being far too generous, but accepted in the end after Pepper threatened to fire him. (All parties knew that that she wasn't actually being serious, but it was enough for the head of security to know when he was beat.)

The second day of Happy's stay, someone snapped a picture of Casper handing Happy his Cuban and posted it to Facebook, Twitter and Instagram. The picture was trending within the hour, bringing some much needed positive publicity to the El Jefe food truck. Casper's boy ran with it, and used the momentary fame to loop in as many followers as possible and to share information about their next few stops.

After seeing the picture circulate through practically all of StarkIndustries, Pepper had tracked down the photographer and acquired the original, unfiltered image. She'd then sent a physical copy of it to Casper, in hopes that he would sign it, so she and Tony could give it to Happy, framed, for Christmas.

When Hogan walked through the doors of SI one week later, he loudly declared that vacation one of the best he'd ever had…before reminding Anna from Accounting that she needed to be wearing her name badge at all times.


	6. Chapter 6: The House Bunny

Thor didn't get to spend much time in Midgard these days. After his vision in the Waters of Sight, he travelled the Nine Realms trying to find any information about the other two Infinity Gems. Even a demigod had his limits though, and when Heimall informed him that Stark had extended an invitation for a benefit gala at his newly rebuilt Malibu house, Thor had gratefully accepted. Jane had also managed to take the weekend off for this event and would be flying into town the next morning—the conventional way, she made sure to stress.

Unfortunately, his concept of time was a little different that the rest of the Avengers, which is why he was awake at 3 AM. As per usual, he spent these quiet hours of the morning getting used to the concept of television, smart phones and machines that cooked things for you without any visible fire. Thanks to the All-Speak, language was not a barrier, even though some phrases called idioms didn't make sense in his native language. But he was learning. And, as a liaison between this world and Asgard, he'd taken it upon himself to stay as informed as possible about Midgard's goings-on.

He'd found a newspaper on the coffee table in the common room and was flipping through it when his gaze landed on a large image of eight women standing in front of a house, the word "ZETA" hanging from the rafters. _Throwback Thursday: Saving the ZETA House_ was the byline. Not knowing what "Throwback Thursday" meant, Thor went to flip the page before one of the women in the photograph caught his eye. He pulled the paper closer to his face and squinted at the one on the far left.

Unless he was mistaken, that woman was Darcy Lewis, Jane's intern. He quickly read the rest of the article, which detailed how the ZETA girls had been about to lose their bid, when an ex-Playboy bunny named Shelley had volunteered to become their house mother. Under her tutelage, they had managed to get thirty new pledges, which saved the sorority house for another year.

He didn't understand most of the specifics of the article, "sororities", "bids", "pledges", but the overall idea of saving someone's home appealed greatly to him. He pulled out his phone and dialed Darcy's number.

"Darcy!" he boomed as soon as she picked up.

"What in the name of—Thor? Do you know…" Thor heard Darcy yawn loudly, "…what time is it?"

Thor grimaced, having learned previously that Midgardians used that line when it was the wrong time for the intended social engagement. "I am sorry Darcy. I will call back later."

"I'm up now," she mumbled. "What's up?"

"I was reading the paper and came across an article that I believe you were in."

"Was it Jane's spread in _Science Monthly_? I think I got a footnote mention."

"No, it is an article about a house named ZETA."

The line fell silent.

"Where did you find that?" Darcy growled. "Did Stark show it to you? I'm going to kill him the next time—"

"It was not Tony," Thor interrupted quickly. "I was only trying to stay up-to-date with Midgardian news. I found the article in the printed paper. Friend Stark had nothing to do with it."

"Oh. Well in that case, what did you want to know?"

"I do not understand the exact events. They wanted to take your house away from you? Why did you not phone one of us? We would have helped you protect it."

Darcy made a sound that Thor was fairly certain was a suppressed laugh. "It's not quite like that. Has anyone explained the fraternity and sorority system to you yet?"

"No, that was actually one of my questions for you."

"Well, frats and sororities are societies that people join in college, kinda like a sports team or an after-school club, but it's more than that. If you choose the right sorority house, you'll make bonds with the girls that'll last for the rest of their lives. They become like your sisters."

"And who decides who lives in what houses?"

"Each sorority or fraternity has a governing body, and they decide who the new pledges, or recruits, will be. Each house has a different area of interest: some are based on interests like music or engineering, some are based on religion, some on ethnicity, some are based on your college major like business or education, and some are meant to be all encompassing, like ZETA was. We created a judgement-free zone and allowed everyone to be who they really wanted to be. Not a lot of other places do that.

"Unfortunately we ended up with a lot of the 'rejects'," Thor had been around Darcy enough to know when she was using air quotes, "which made us "undesirable" to the other societies and therefore unpopular for recruits."

"That is most unfortunate."

"It was."

"So how did you merit the article in the newspaper?"

"My sophomore year, the head honchos decided that we needed a certain number of members to keep our pledge. That's when we met Shelley, who was an ex-Playboy bunny…do you know what that is?"

"Is this Shelley some sort of mix between human and rabbit?"

Darcy chuckled. "Nope, but I'm not going to explain it. You'll have to ask Jane about it some other time.

"What you need to know is that Shelley won over Natalie, who was de facto in charge, to be our house mother. Because of her background, she knew how to be popular and she taught us how to dress, how to speak to guys, how to hold successful parties. It was because of her that we picked up thirty new members and saved the house."

"But you are no longer there."

"How much time do you have?"

"What?"

"It's an expression. It means that my story is long."

"Oh. I am most ready to listen to your tale, Darcy."

"Normally I'd be happy to tell the whole thing but I have to be up for work in a few hours, so here's the condensed version: when I got to college I was determined to reinvent myself, so I got a new haircut, dye job and a lot—I mean, _a lot_ —of piercings. I didn't really fit into any of the clubs or teams they were offering so I decided to rush, which means visit all the sororities and vote on the one you think fits you best. I liked what ZETA stood for and was instantly accepted by its members.

"I love what ZETA became with Shelley's help but the other parts of that school just wasn't right for me. I didn't feel like I belonged anywhere but at the house, so I talked it over with my parents and my sisters and transferred to Culver University, where I declared and finished my polysci degree. The economy tanked just after graduation and I had to move back home to New Mexico, where I applied for Jane's unpaid internship just to appease my parents, who were tired of me sitting on the couch watching Netflix all day. Turns out, it was a really good life choice, especially when Jane managed to swing me a stipend in the new budget." She paused for a moment to take a breath. "And that's about it, big guy. Anything else you want to know?"

"No, Darcy. I think that is everything."

"Glad I could help."

"You did. This is a lovely story. Thank you for taking the time to share it. I will treasure it always."

"Uh huh. Well, even I need a few hours of sleep, Thor, so if you don't have anything else I need to call it a night."

"Of course. Thank you again, Darcy. Sleep well," Thor said as he ended the call.

Then he flipped to the back page, where the headline read _Aliens in New York City? One Man Tells All,_ and continued to read.

* * *

 **I took a few liberties with this chapter and made the House Bunny version and the Thor of Kat Dennings the same. I hope that's alright.** **Dealing with the different names didn't fit well into this chapter, but if anyone is curious, I was intending for "Mona" to be a typo in the school paper that was never corrected.**

 **Anyway, thanks for reading. I hope you all had a wonderful holiday season!**


	7. Chapter 7: The Losers

"All's quiet over here," Clint announced, scanning the area outside a nondescript office building. He was perched across the street on a roof with an unobstructed view of said office space.

"First floor is clear," Natasha added.

"Second's clear too," Tony continued, fully dressed in his Iron Man suit, though the exterior lights had been dimmed to avoid detection.

"No one is at the safe," Steve added from his position inside the large room on the fifth floor.

"All right," Coulson said from the surveillance quinjet which was hovering in stealth mode over the street. "Keep a look out. We can't the Intersect fall into the wrong hands."

The Intersect was a piece of intelligence developed by the CIA and the NSA in a post-9/11 world. It was designed to see patterns that ordinary humans could not. Spies in the field could wear special glasses that linked into the Intersect which relayed strategies back to them when a pattern was discovered. It was a powerful tool that the world's crime lords were eager to eliminate. SHIELD intel had discovered a plot to access the Intersect tonight, though whether to steal it, destroy it, or just download its data remained to be determined. Regardless, the Avengers had been called in to protect it and to apprehend as many of the thieves as possible.

Steve heard a soft noise in the hallway, melodic, almost like _humming?_ There was usually one guard who patrolled the building at night, but he wasn't due to make a sweep for another hour. Also, Office Jaenada was a quiet Hispanic man, who had spoken less than ten words in the entire week SHIELD had been casing the building, which made the thought of him being the one humming in the hallway very unlikely.

"I hear something," Steve whispered into the comms, rising to his feet and pulling his shield in front of him. Moments later, the door creaked open and a hooded figure stepped into the room. He must have had training for he was hardly making any noise with his footfalls. If he hadn't been humming, Steve probably wouldn't have noticed his presence until he was right outside the door.

"Report, Captain," Coulson demanded.

Steve allowed the intruder to take two more steps into the room before dropping his shield and diving at the man. The two went down in a tangle of arms and legs.

"SHIELD," the soldier announced, driving his shoulder into the intruder's solar plexus. "You're under arrest."

Steve barely saw the elbow heading for his face in the darkness and just managed to pull his head back. The intruder took this opportunity to squirm out from under Steve's grip, kneeing him in the abdomen as he did so.

"Jupiter, we've been compromised," Rogers heard the intruder—a man—say as he rose to his feet.

Steve spun on the ground, sweeping the figure's legs out from under him. As the second man went down, Steve was reaching for his cuffs, when the man kicked at him, landing a blow to his cheekbone which snapped Rogers' head around. Recovering quickly, Steve grabbed the ankle as the man tried to pull his leg away and twisted but the intruder rolled with the motion before any serious damage could be done and sprang to his feet.

"Yeah, I've got it," the man huffed as he assumed a fighter's stance.

Steve jumped upright, directly into the sliver of light streaming in from the hallway, ready to attack again.

"No way," the second man breathed. He immediately stopped moving and raised his hands. "You're Captain America."

"I am." Steve didn't relax his stance, but closed his fist, ready to call his shield if need be.

"I'm not going to fight you man," the intruder said. "We're on the same side."

"What side is that exactly?"

"The good guys, the feds, the G-men. Name's Jake Jensen," the man stepped into the beam of light, allowing Steve his first good look at the intruder. The man was about six feet tall, athletically built, and had his hair styled in a way the supersoldier had never seen before. He was wearing a T-shirt under a hooded vest and jeans and had a comms unit resting against his jaw. "Sorta, kinda not, but still technically CIA," Jensen said, straightening his glasses.

"Let's see some sort of identification."

"Don't have any. Wouldn't be a very good loser if I did."

At this point, Steve was wholly convinced that this was a distraction and reached for his M911 in its holster.

"Don't move!" a female voice came from the doorway. Steve clenched his left fist and his shield zoomed toward his arm. In the same motion, he pulled out his weapon and trained it at the woman in the doorway.

"Stand down, Aisha. This is Captain America!" Jensen stated, moving toward the two of them. Steve's finger tightened on the trigger, thinking he was being attacked, but Jensen stepped in front of him and faced the woman. "You can't shoot Captain America."

"Who?" the woman asked.

Jensen groaned loudly and turned sideways, pointing at Steve's shield with both hands. He either didn't realize that Steve's weapon was trained on him, or he really didn't care. "Supersoldier from the 40s, crashed a plane, suspended animation for 75 years. He's a living legend, how have you never heard of him?"

The woman shook her head.

"He's a good guy. Better than good. He's pretty much the _epitome_ of good. We can trust him." He made an up-and-down motion with his hand to span Steve's entire figure. Aisha scowled at Jensen, but reluctantly lowered her weapon, much to Steve's surprise.

"I'm trusting you," she ground out, sliding it into the waistband of her cargo pants. "Don't make me regret it."

Jensen turned back to Steve, who was still holding his M911 on both of them, his shield firmly in place. "That's Aisha," Jake explained lightly, as if they were a party, not in the middle of a stand-off. "Don't call her ma'am."

He then flinched, his hand going up to his ear. "Yeah, Jupiter, we're all good here. Turns out Captain America is guarding the Intersect. We don't need to steal it at all. It's safe—"

"Steal it?" Steve repeated, his finger tightening on the grip of his weapon.

Jensen shook his head. "Not like that. We're not _stealing it_ , stealing it. We're stealing it to protect it," he explained brightly, even bouncing slightly at the last sentence for emphasis. "Before you disagree, it makes a certain amount of sense. Have you seen _National Treasure_? Surprisingly underrated movie, if you're into our nation's history and all that. Me, I'm only in it for the heist. Anyway, it'll make my explanation easier—"

"Jensen," Aisha hissed.

"He's Captain freakin' America, Aisha. It's fine if he knows the plan. Anyway, we had intel that Max was going to steal the Intersect. Who is Max, you may ask? Not a nice guy. He tried to take over the planet by detonating Easter Eggs From Hell. Unfortunately, he got away when he made us choose between saving lives and taking him down. But we'll get him. I've got Nancy on it."

Steve's head began to ache from the quantity and speed of the words the man was saying. He had heard of a ghost named Max from one of SHIELD's most wanted briefings, which was bringing credence to this bizarre tale. "So you thought you'd steal the Intersect to keep Max from stealing it."

Jensen nodded. "That's what I said."

"And I'm just supposed to believe that the two of you work with the CIA, even though neither of you have any ID to show?"

"Well technically no. I'm with the CIA. She's…consulting…if you will." He jabbed his thumb over his shoulder in Aisha's direction.

There was a metallic clinking and suddenly Iron Man appeared in the doorway, repulsor raised. At the sound, Aisha spun toward the door, pulling a snub-nosed shotgun from god knows where, while Jensen once again raised his hands to his shoulders in a sign of surrender and bounced excitedly on the balls of his feet.

"What's the situation, Cap?" Tony asked, training a repulsor on each intruder at the same time Jensen gasped, "That's Iron Man. Oh my god, I'm about to meet Iron Man!"

Jensen reached over and guided the barrel of Aisha's gun toward the floor. "Please don't shoot Tony Stark, Aisha. This is a once in a lifetime chance."

She shot him the deadliest glare but reluctantly lowered her second weapon. "When this is all over we're going to have a serious talk about your trust issues."

"They say they're with the CIA. They want to steal the Intersect to protect it from someone named Max," Steve summarized, when Aisha was no longer an immediate threat. Jensen nodded enthusiastically, in time to the bouncing.

"We didn't think it was safe with SHIELD, but that's before we knew _you_ were guarding it. I mean, the voice lock was a cinch to beat, and so was the fingerprint scanner. You might want to add in a few more pin and tumbler locks, 10-pins should be good, just to slow other nefarious people down. But overall, one of the better security systems I've seen."

"You believe them?" Tony asked, as if Jensen hadn't spoken.

"It's an interesting story," Steve said. "Neither has ID, so there's no way to prove it."

"You have a uplink in your suit, right?" Jensen piped up. "You can look me up. Jake Jensen, born 1/19/1987 in Portsmouth, New Hampshire."

"It's already running," Tony stated. After a brief moment, a series of documents danced in his HUD. "Jensen, Jacob. Born in Portsmouth, New Hampshire, as he said. Accepted into Mensa at 12. Caltech at 15. Joined the CIA in 2003 at only 18. Mild disciplinary actions, bounced around from team to team until Colonel Franklin Clay filed for his transfer. Then nothing until his reported death in 2011. Sister, Jessica, received his death benefits."

Jensen looked impressed. "You are legit. I erased most of those files myself. Left only a few tidbits to come back to when I take my early retirement. As for the faking our own death thing, there's no red tape to deal with when people think you're dead. Gives you the element of surprise, especially when you're hunting down a wannabe criminal mastermind." He said it so casually, Steve was concerned they were dealing with a psychopath.

"There's a 99% facial match between this guy and his CIA photo," Tony said as both images flashed on his HUD. He blinked as the CIA enlistment photo, depicting a clean-shaven Jensen with a military haircut, grew until it spanned the entire left side of his screen. "Jeez, Cap, he could be your brother...if you'd woken up a decade earlier when frosted tips were still in style."

While Steve took another look at the intruder, Jensen turned and smacked Aisha on the shoulder. "See! I told you we looked alike! But none of you believed me."

The hacker straightened up and elongated his face. "Not even in your wildest dreams, Jensen. You look as much like him as I look like Roque." Jensen hunched his shoulders and leaned to one side, smoldering at the team, and shook his head rapidly without saying a word. Then he reached out and flicked an empty patch of air. "No way, Jose. You're dreamin'." Finally, his face contorted into an exaggerated smile. "Jensen if you ask me that again," he began in a high-pitched voice, "I will cut off your ear and add it to my collection."

"I don't sound like that," Aisha's eyes were blazing as she landed a solid kick to Jensen's quad. With a grunt, the tech stepped backward to keep his balance but remained upright.

Tony's repulsors flashed again. "Stand down, you two." They did so, Aisha more reluctantly than Jensen.

"What's the call, Cap?"

"Not to tell you how to run your field, Cap," Clint interrupted over the comms, "but I've heard of this team. They call themselves the Losers. Ultra-secret black-ops team designed to take down the worst of criminals. Franklin Clay, their leader, is a good man."

Steve considered that for a moment. Coming from Barton, that was high praise. That combined with what Tony had found out only cemented the feeling he'd had that the man was on the level.

"With all due respect, Captain," Jensen said quietly, "the longer Aisha and I are out here, the more we risk being noticed by Max. The only thing we have going for us at the moment is the element of surprise."

"You can go," Steve decided as he slung his shield onto his back. "But if we find any information about you that doesn't track, we won't hesitate to bring down the fullest extent of the law."

He heard Tony exhale loudly in the suit, but the inventor didn't comment.

"Sounds fair." Jensen whirled around to face Steve, straightened up to his full height, and fixed Rogers with a crisp salute. "It's been a pleasure working with you, Captain."

Then Jensen turned to the Iron Man suit. "Mr. Stark, I have no words. Well actually I have lots of words but I'll try to keep it short. I'm a huge fan for years. I saw what you were working on at MIT. Brilliant stuff, but I can't help but think if you'd just modified–"

Aisha groaned, grabbed Jensen by the collar of his shirt and pushed him toward the doorway. "Go team!" Jensen shouted as they disappeared into the hallway.

Tony flipped up his face plate, his mouth set into a line. "You sure that's the right call?"

"Yeah," Steve pulled off his cowl and ran a hand through his hair. "I am."

He hesitated for a moment. "But just in case—"

"Add all their pictures to JARVIS' usual security sweeps and track their aliases," Tony nodded. "Got ya, Cap."

Steve nodded. "I'm pretty sure our cover here is blown. Coulson, I think we need to move the package. Too much exposure here."

"I agree. Barton and Romanov, with me. Steve, Tony, move to Unit B."

Tony opened the safe and lifted out the Intersect, enclosing it in a briefcase Steve had produced. He stared at it for a moment.

 _Decoy?_ he mouthed to Steve, who nodded. Tony put it in the briefcase and sealed it with both his and Steve's fingerprints.

Once in the van, Tony turned to Steve, "Well now that that's over, we can talk about the size of your look-alike club."

"Tony, you're the one who said that there are only a finite number of genetic possibilities and that eventually some are going to repeat."

"Yeah, but in your case, we've seen three almost exact siblings: you, Storm and Jensen."

"And Colin Shea."

Tony's head snapped around. "Who?"

"I ran into him in Boston after one of his exes slapped me across the face."

"Steve—"

"I'm sure it's nothing," Steve continued. "I mean, that's possible right?" He turned to Tony, a slightly fearful look in his eye. And Tony understood. The serum running through his blood was beyond powerful. In their time as Avengers, they'd taken out two separate facilities trying to recreate it. It was a possibility that someone had tried cloning but had it not go as planned. However, nothing about the two Tony had met had stood out at all on paper. He'd have to look more into this Jake Jensen before he came up with a definite conclusion, though.

"It is," Tony said, adding that to his workload for the week. "7 billion people in the world and all."

Steve seemed slightly reassured by this and settled back in his seat, his arm wrapped around the decoy briefcase. "All within the realm of possibility," he repeated, as if trying to convince himself.

* * *

 **I have a few more chapters I'd like to do, but I need to make sure I can design a plot that doesn't make these revelations feel redundant. In the case that I can't, I am going to mark this as complete, with the intention of updating it later if the stars align.**

 **Thank you for sticking with me through the sometimes long waits. I appreciate all of your support!**

 **Have a fantastic New Year!**


	8. Chapter 8: Gwyneth medley and Rush

**A/N: This chapter is based off a prompt for** **Amarin_Rose who wanted "Thanks for Sharing" and** **KandyKorn24** **who wanted to see Thor's doppelganger.**

 **Also, apologies in advance to anyone who is named Phoebe. I think it is a lovely name. One character in this chapter does not, however.**

* * *

Something crashed into Tony, sending him lurching forward. He spun around in confusion and quickly realized he was outside, on a jogging path of some sort, with people wearing brightly colored shoes, shorts and jackets streaming by in all directions.

"Watch it buddy!" a man shouted, rubbing his shoulder to emphasize his point. Tony blinked as he belatedly realized the collision must have been that man running into him.

Someone else raced by him, cursing at him under her breath for standing in the middle of the path. Before the situation could escalate further, Tony made an apologetic gesture and quickly stepped off the trail, racking his brain to remember why he had stepped _on_ the path in the first place.

Had he seen someone he knew?

He spun around quickly, looking now at the people's faces but didn't recognize any of them. He also took this time to look down at himself and note the dark jeans and faded Pink Floyd shirt he was wearing—he obviously wasn't out there to jog then (not that that was something he'd ever done willingly in his life).

Was he on the way to the store?

He usually sent people for that but it was possible they'd needed something _now_. He patted his left back pocket and felt the outline of his wallet. He'd picked it off the entryway table so he'd either needed cash or needed his license to drive somewhere.

Had Pepper had sent him outside because he'd been in the lab for too long?

That was the most likely but why was he in the park? It wasn't one of his regular places to visit when Pepper kicked him out of his lab.

With each unknown question, panic began to swell in his system but, with great effort, he was able to tamp down on it. There had to be a reason he was out here. If he could just calm down, he could probably figure it out. To ward off the oncoming attack, he started reciting what he knew, starting with the basics: his name, his birthday, his address, his phone number—

Phone number!

Tony scrambled for his phone in his pants pocket and pulled it out with a triumphant fist pump. All he had to do is call Pepper. She'd know what was happening. She'd probably laugh at him later for not remembering why he'd gone outside but that was preferable to the building unease he was feeling now.

He unlocked his StarkPhone, quickly punched in her number, then jammed the phone against his ear, silently begging for her to pick up. The phone rang once, twice.

 _Your call cannot be completed as dialed. Please check the number and dial again,_ a mechanical voice said.

Tony pulled the phone away from his ear and forced himself to check the digits of the phone number one at a time, in case he'd made a mistake while typing it in. Unfortunately, the number was correct.

Maybe it was a fluke.

He hung up, then dialed the number again with the same results.

He scowled as he punched the "end" button. He stared at his screen, watching it return to the app drawer, then spied the Calendar icon.

 _He could check his schedule and see what he had planned,_ Tony realized and hurried to tap the icon. Unfortunately, the day was completely empty. As panic started to swell again, he flipped through a few adjacent months, seeing no engagements anywhere, where he knew some had been in weeks prior.

He forced himself to take a deep breath then dialed Happy, JARVIS, Steve, Bruce, Clint, Natasha, in that order. All went straight to the misdirection message.

 _Maybe a cell tower was out,_ he thought, but then saw four people run by engaged in various conversations.

"Okay guys, you got me," he shouted loudly, a last resort in hopes that this was a prank. "Good job, well done, let's go home now." He scanned the area again, in hopes his friends would appear but he only saw oncoming strangers.

Okay, that was a little rude but Tony was determined to take this all in stride, in case he was being filmed. The last thing he needed was to be broadcast all over the news having a panic attack in the park because he couldn't remember why he was out there to begin with.

"No problem," he muttered to himself. "I'll just go back to the Tower."

He looked up at the skyline, trying to orient himself. He scanned the very recognizable buildings, his stomach sinking when he wasn't able to spot the Tower. At this point, the worry that had been slowly building reached a crescendo and he knew he wasn't far away from losing it entirely.

 _Maybe it was just a dream!_ his brain offered, its own last ditch effort to remain calm.

That made enough sense for Tony's panic to subside temporarily. He blew out a shaky breath and hopped onto the middle of the path, knowing there was only one way to find out if that was true.

"Do you know who I am?" he shouted at the people racing by him on both sides.

"No," one woman replied, shooting him a concerned glance.

That wasn't unusual. Odds were there were a small handful of people who hadn't heard the Stark brand. He spun around, waved his hands in front of another oncoming jogger and repeated the question, once, three times, seven, ten, until someone called him a weirdo and actually pushed him out of the way.

He stumbled off the path and dropped onto the bench. "It has to be a dream," he mumbled. A horrible, horrible dream. Or an equally horrible hex.

Regardless, where ever he was clearly wasn't reality, a fact which settled his system slightly because both of those options were finite and would end eventually. Then he vaguely remembered something about a time gem the team had been looking for. What if he'd been permanently dropped into an alternate universe where the Stark name had been completely erased from existence? He wasn't even sure if that was a possibility but his brain ran with it, projecting a multitude of unhappy scenarios on the backs of his eyelids.

His chest heaving, he buried his head in his hands and tried to calm his breathing. He could figure this out. If he'd gotten here, there had to be a way for him to get back.

"Yeah, I'm out for a run."

Tony perked up as he recognized that voice. He looked around quickly, his eyes landing on...a _blonde_ Pepper?...standing at the foot of the trail, clad in a T-shirt which was emblazoned with the pink breast cancer ribbon and read "I'm a survivor!", black leggings and sneakers.

"Pepper!" he shouted, scrambling to his feet, but the blonde woman didn't respond and actually turned to face in the other direction.

"Pepper Potts!" Tony repeated as he raced down the path. "Call you back," he heard her say as he closed the distance between them. When he was within arm's reach, he grabbed her arm and turned her gently around.

To his great surprise, her expression was one of anger not surprise. "What the hell, man?" she cried, twisting her arm out of his grip.

"Pepper, it's me!" Tony repeated, unashamed to admit there was a tiny note of desperation in his tone.

At that, the woman softened slightly. "I think you have the wrong person," she said politely, though there was still a current of annoyance in her tone.

"Pepper this really isn't funny," Tony said, a last ditch effort to somehow trick his brain, the gem, or whoever was doing this to him into snapping him out of it.

"I'm sorry, sir," the woman replied levelly, "but I'm not Pepper."

"Phoebe, is this guy bothering you?" At the sound of the second very familiar voice, Tony spun around so quickly he practically gave himself whiplash.

"Bruce!" he shouted, stepping back so he could look at both of them. The dark-haired man looked quizzically at Pepper then back at Tony, genuine confusion in his expression. She just shrugged. "I told him he was mistaken," she said, gesturing to Stark.

"Phoebe is right. I'm Adam," not-Bruce said, stepping closer to Pepper and wrapping an arm around her shoulders protectively.

Tony's gaze ping-ponged between the two of them, who were staring at him with no signs of recognition, noting how not-Pepper welcomed not-Bruce's touch. They obviously knew each other, they just didn't know who _he_ was.

It hadn't occurred to him until now that his alternate universe theory involved his friends with different names and identities, instead of just the people he knew doing different jobs or living different lives.

"I'm sorry," Tony gasped, stumbling away from the two of them.

"Adam, do you think we should help—"

Then there was silence.

Tony glanced up to find himself in a darkened auditorium. He shot out of his seat and scanned the room, quickly realizing he was the only one in there.

Suddenly, he heard the sound of a door banging open and looked behind him to see the same blond Pepper, this time wearing a black rain jacket and rain boots, sprinting toward the stage.

"Pepper?" Tony called out, hoping that perhaps this version of his dream/vision/hex/alternate universe would be more cooperative. Unfortunately, this version of his girlfriend ignored him as well and disappeared into the wings before he could get out of the row of seats.

Suddenly, a pop song blared through the speakers as the curtains pulled away, revealing a tarp-covered stage. Performers streamed from the wings, wearing all black and carrying umbrellas. It was then that Tony realized the stage was filled with puddles of water, which was why it needed the protective tarps.

Tony's head snapped around as the rapping faded to singing and he recognized the lead woman's voice yet again. He squinted at the stage and saw blonde Pepper on stage right, singing and dancing her heart out, opposite a shorter thirty-something with tightly curled hair and a cleft chin.

Tony slowly sank back into a stadium seat, unable to take his eyes of his girlfriend...well, not his girlfriend. Pepper adored musicals and attended as many as she could every season but unfortunately didn't have a musical bone in her body, despite the lessons she'd taken a few years back. So whoever this was, wasn't his Pepper, which meant he hadn't magically been dropped back into reality after running into Phoebe and Adam.

At this point, he was less certain of the alternate reality theory because of that exact odd jump in time...and space, he realized as he caught a glimpse of a handout tacked to the wall in the light from the stage. The handout was from the Ohio School Board about budget cuts, which heavily featured the theater department. If the poster was to be trusted, he had jumped from New York to Ohio in a matter of seconds, which pretty much invalidated his alternate universe theory all together, as he was fairly sure they too had to obey the laws of physics. Besides, this whole set-up had more of a "Ghosts of Christmas Past" feel, jumping between the "what might have beens", which gave credence to his idea that this was something finite like a dream or a hex.

Half of him wanted to just leave, wanting to accelerate the jumping process so he could just _go. home!_ , but the other half was spellbound by the ease at which not-Pepper spun around the stage, the look of absolute radiance on her face. So, unable to tear his eyes away, he sat through the entire performance, biting back the irrational jealousy at the look the two leads exchanged at the end.

As soon music ended, the stage faded to black. Tony waited for the sounds of the performers leaving but heard only silence. After a few long moments, curiosity got the better of him and he carefully made his way to the front of the stage, hoping that a clue might have been left in order for him to get out of this dreamscape. As he pulled apart the curtains though, he saw no signs of the tarps, the water or the rain. He dragged his hand lightly across the wood, garnering a few splinters, but not feeling any residual wetness either.

As he lifted his hand, he heard soft blues music blaring from behind him. He looked over his shoulder to determine its source...and found himself standing in someone's backyard—in the midst of a party, judging by the people milling around. As the shock of yet another jump wore off, he scanned his surroundings, looking for someone he recognized. He didn't see anyone right away, but he did locate the small blues ensemble which was situated underneath a "Good luck, Rosemary!" sign.

"You have no right to be here!" he heard a woman declare.

He whipped his head around again, his neck wildly protesting the quick motion, and saw a heavyset woman with straight blond hair and bangs that hung in her eyes, glaring at a shorter, dark-haired man. Tony did a double take as he recognized the woman for the third time today.

"I'm a freakin' idiot," the man was saying. "But I love you."

As not-Pepper's face softened, revealing a hurt Tony had only just come to recognize as one belonging to someone deeply in love, Tony's heart ached when he realized that look was not directed at him.

Ever since Pepper had begun working at Stark Industries, Tony had been concerned they were going to lose her. She had been way overqualified for the position but determined to take whatever job she could get in order to stay in New York; her work ethic and resistance to Tony's charms had made her the perfect employee so she'd been hired on the spot. It hadn't taken her long to work her way to his personal assistant, only reinforcing the fact that he literally couldn't live without her. The longer she stayed, the more worried Tony was that she'd wake up and realize the mess she'd walked into, despite his many attempts to put his life back together. But she'd weathered the storm and, to Tony's great surprise, she began feeling the same way about him that he did for her.

He considered himself damn lucky to be worthy of her affections and was doing his best to reciprocate by being the person she deserved. It was slow going but he was genuinely trying, all the while hoping it was enough.

Rousing applause broke out, drawing him back to the present, and he refocused on the scene around him, finding not-Pepper and the dark-haired man kissing. When they broke apart, she looked so positively thrilled that the vice around Tony's heart tightened painfully.

The dark-haired man then struggled for a moment to pick the woman—Rosemary—up, obviously intent on carrying her over the threshold to their new adventure. After watching him struggle for a few moments, she pulled him to his feet, shook her head, then effortlessly lifted him into her arms and carried him into the house, much to everyone else's delight.

The guests immediately began to follow Rosemary and her lover, creating somewhat of a mob. Unable to extricate himself from the moving mass, Tony found himself headed for the wall of the house. He struggled, trying to slip into the crowd at another angle but, just before he was successful, someone shoved him from the right, sending his head on a collision course with the brick wall.

Tony's eyes flew open, his breath coming in harsh gasps. He immediately reached for his forehead, expecting to find a nasty wound, but all his probing fingers found was smooth skin. As he attempted to palpate the right side of his face, he felt a tinge in the back of his left hand and looked over to see an IV port taped to the back of it.

As the rest of his senses slowly returned, Tony realized he was lying on a bed, staring at the ceiling. From the sounds around him, he instantly knew he was in a hospital room.

He tilted his head downward and saw a redheaded woman slumped at his bedside, resting her head against her crossed arms on his bed, a position which looked completely uncomfortable. He ever so cautiously reached out and touched the woman's hand, feeling great relief when he felt her soft skin under the pads of his fingers.

"Pepper?" he asked hesitantly, wanting nothing more than to take her hand in his. He resisted though in case this was another dreamscape since he didn't want to make the situation worse than it already was.

The woman literally jerked upright, keeping herself from tipping backwards by grabbing the bedsheet with an iron grip. She looked around the room in panic, her gaze finally landing on him. He steeled himself in case she didn't recognize him but her eyes widened and she gasped, "Tony. You're awake!" She quickly steadied herself then reached out and slowly ran her hand down the side of his face. "I was so worried."

Tony carefully took her hand in his, pressing it tightly to his cheek. "You recognize me?" he asked, not caring that he sounded all of four years old.

Pepper shot him a patented look that was equal parts confused and concerned, and Tony felt hope that he was indeed back in reality spread throughout his system.

"Of course I do," the redhead stated firmly. Then realization dawned on her features. "Bruce said it was a hallucinogen."

"What is a hallucinogen?" Tony asked, then quickly added, "And while we're at it, why am I in a hospital?"

"You were on a mission with the Avengers. You got hit with some sort of powder while your face mask was up and collapsed." She pulled their hands away from his face, so they rested on the bed, and began rubbing circles on the back of his hand with her thumb. "Bruce has been working nonstop to identify it but he hasn't had much luck. Since you made it through the first twelve hours with steady vitals, we were pretty sure you were going to make it. He and the rest of the team were here the whole time. I made them leave about an hour ago to change out of their uniforms, and hopefully shower and eat." She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "You scared the hell out of me," she stated, trying to keep her tone light and non-accusatorial.

Tony shifted to the far side of the bed and patted the space beside him. Luckily the machines were off to his left so Pepper was able to climb in next to him without having to lay on any of the wires. He tried to roll onto his side and pull her close but the electrodes on his chest tugged painfully, so he resigned himself to laying flat on his back, Pepper nestled into his side. "I'm so sorry, Pep," he said as he tilted his head to the right and rested it against her shoulder. He inhaled deeply, bringing in a waft of her perfume, and felt some of the tension from his dreams begin to bleed out of his system.

"It wasn't your fault," she said, tilting her own head so it rested on his. They lay like that for a moment before she asked softly, "What did you dream about?"

"You," Tony replied. "But you weren't you. You were just people who looked like you but didn't even know who I was."

"That sounds awful," she stated and he knew she was commenting on the fact that he had had to go through that. She reached over and took his free hand, bending her arm so their clasped hands rested on their touching shoulders.

"In the first one, you were a breast cancer survivor, I think. You were platinum blonde and you—" he grimaced and shook his head. "You were running with someone who looked just like Bruce—literally running, I might add, not the slang use of the word. His name was Adam and yours was…" he paused to think for a moment, "Phoebe. Your name was Phoebe."

Pepper grimaced. "I've never liked the name Phoebe."

"You were also together," Tony finished sourly.

"Bruce and I?" Pepper laughed once, then quickly sobered, realizing what an experience that would have been for him. "Tony, you know there's nothing going on between us. We're friends, nothing more."

"Oh, I know," Tony said, having never even considered that possibility. "It was just hard to watch, that's all."

He could tell that she was ready to press him on that topic so he quickly continued. "You would have liked the second you though. You were onstage, singing and dancing. And you were good!"

Pepper wasn't the least bit upset by this backhanded compliment. "What did I sing?"

"It was two songs interleaved," Tony demonstrated by interlacing his and Pepper's fingers. " _Singin' in the Rain_ was one. Something about an umbrella was the other. It was pretty neat," he went on to explain about the stage and the costumes, all the while watching Pepper's face light up.

"Is that all?" she asked when he had fallen silent.

"No. There was one more. You were…" he hesitated, trying to come up with the right word, "... _heavier_ in that one."

Pepper tilted her head so she could make a face at him. "How much heavier?"

"Two hundred pounds," Tony stated. He was expecting her to be...not upset persay, but _miffed_ or _questioning._ To his great surprise, Pepper just fixed him with an amused glance. "Are you saying you wouldn't love me if I was over three hundred pounds?"

Tony straightened up as much as the wires would allow and looked his girlfriend straight in the eyes. "Pepper, I'm always going to love you, no matter what shape or size you are," he vowed.

Pepper's expression fractured and she wrapped an arm around Tony, pulling him forward slightly so their foreheads just rested against each other's. "I will always love you too, Tony," she replied as they both settled back onto the bed.

"Did 300-pound me do anything exciting?" she asked after a moment's silence.

"You were joining the Peace Corps: I watched your going-away ceremony. Your boyfriend in that one—a Jack Black look-alike—surprised you by signing up for the Corps too, so you could spend 14 months in Carabas together."

"Sounds like a keeper."

Tony had been feeling unease ever since he'd begun recounting his dreams but at that moment, his bowels turned to jelly. "Do you like that stuff?" he asked, a complete non sequitur.

"What stuff?" Pepper asked, lifting her head so she could look at him.

"The big romantic gesture. Would you like that, or something a little more low key?"

Pepper stared at him curiously. "Depends on what it's for."

"I mean, if I was going to ask you something, would you want me to make a big deal about it?" he clarified, his heart beating practically in his throat, making it difficult to speak. His mouth had helpfully dried up and he had to swallowed hard a few times before he could continue.

Pepper's eyes widened slightly. "I'd trust you to do it right," she said slowly.

"So you wouldn't be offended if I asked you to marry me, right here, right now?"

"Is this you asking?"

Tony shook his head. "No." And he saw a flicker of disappointment flash over Pepper's face. Undeterred, Tony reached over and grabbed both of Pepper's hands in his, quite a feat given his current situation and held them over his heart. "But this is.

"You are the single greatest thing that has ever happened to me, Pepper," he began, trying not to think too much about what he was saying, and letting his heart say what it wanted. "When you leave on business, I miss you with a fervor even I don't understand. It's like I'm missing a physical part of me. That's how I felt today, watching not-you be in love with three random guys. You seemed to be happy, which is all I ever want for you, but you weren't happy with me. And I'm willing to accept those alternate realities if I can at least have you in this one.

"You know me almost better than I know myself. I'm not going to be perfect but if you'll give me the chance, I'll do my best to be the husband you deserve." He paused to take a deep breath, also to gather enough saliva to ask the big question. "So, Virginia Potts, will you marry me?" he said quickly, in one breath, all the words running together.

Tears came to her eyes but she maintained her composure and motioned to all the hospital equipment, focusing on the IV bag. "Are you sure?"

He knew she was asking if he was going to mean this when the drugs wore off. "Surer than I've been of anything in my life."

"Then yes," she responded, a wide grin coming to her face. "I will absolutely marry you, Tony Stark." She stretched up to give him a long kiss and Tony felt like his chest might explode with sheer happiness.

"I don't have a ring or anything," he continued, "but we can fix that when I get out of here."

Pepper let out a small laugh and raised her hand, showing Tony the small ruby on her right middle finger. She quickly slid it off and moved it to her left ring finger. "That will do for now," she said, with a small nod of approval, as she settled her head back against his.

Not long after, a nurse entered and, without any other form of introduction, began clucking about their bedding situation. She forced Pepper to sit in the chair provided for friends and family, then set about examining her patient, all the while reading them the riot act about the unknowns of the compound in Tony's system. Bruce—the real Bruce who recognized and knew him—came in not long after that, having ignored Pepper's order to go home. He managed to get the nurse, Katherine, to calm down a little and, when she was finished, performed his own examination.

"Am I going to live?" Tony deadpanned, seeing the harsh lines on his friend's face.

"I need to wait until I've examined your blood." Bruce held up the sample he just took, "but if the pattern holds, the compound will be out of your system by the end of the day."

"So that means I—"

"—will be staying here until tomorrow," Bruce interrupted. When Tony shot him a purposefully betrayed expression, Banner just shrugged. "I'm sorry Tony but you need to be in a place set up to handle an emergency should something happen. I'll be here the whole time myself, if that makes you feel any better."

"Not really," Tony scowled, settling back into his bed and crossing his arms over his chest petulantly. Bruce unfortunately was immune to his antics and shrugged again as he walked out the door, announcing that he'd be back in an hour with the results of his analysis.

"So what do you want to do?" Tony asked, wagging his eyebrows suggestively, as soon as Banner and the nurse were gone.

Pepper took one look at him then tapped the railing of the hospital bed to flip on the television. "Rest," she said emphatically. "You look like you need it."

"You're no fun," Tony groaned.

"For better or worse," Pepper recited as she flipped through at least ten informercials before landing on the movie channel, which was playing a film about two famous racecar drivers. She looked questioningly at Tony, who just shrugged, still upset at having to stay in the hospital overnight. As she settled back into her chair, Tony couldn't help but notice how she kept rolling the ring on her left hand with her thumb, as if unable to believe it was really there. Pepper glanced over, catching him in the act, and he quickly looked away, focusing on the television screen where an athletic man with shoulder-length blond hair pulling off a helmet.

The man was a dead-ringer for Thor, if the demigod traded all his bulk for lean muscle.

There was suddenly no air in Tony's lungs and he struggled to make himself breathe again.

Within seconds of him making a choking sound, Pepper had shot upright and thumbed the nurse's call button. "What's wrong?" she demanded, leaning over the bed and pressing her hand against his chest.

"It's not real," Tony choked out between stunted inhales.

"What's not real?"

"This." Tony pointed a shaking finger at the screen. "'S not-Thor, which means I'm...still dreaming, I'm...not here, I didn't really...propose to you—"

"Tony," Pepper said, a minute bit of the worry melting off her face as she realized he was having a panic attack and not a seizure. She cupped his face in her hands, forcing him to look at her. "You said no one in your dream recognized you. I do. You're Tony Stark, inventor, genius, billionaire, and my," she stuttered on the word, 'fiancé', forcing it out instead of 'boyfriend'. "This is real; you're not hallucinating. You proposed and I accepted. I promise."

Tony's breaths slowly began to even out and Pepper risked a quick glance over her shoulder. "It does look a lot like Thor though," she said as the doppelganger came back on screen. "But I promise you're back. You're not stuck in a hallucination. You believe me, don't you?"

Tony nodded. "Always, Pep."

"Good." She reached over and changed the channel to a cooking show. "How about that?"

"Better," Tony said, then he reached out and pulled Pepper close, unwilling to let her go any time soon.

"For better or worse?" he deadpanned.

"Til death do us part," Pepper finished as Nurse Katherine hurried in. Despite hearing that it was 'only' a panic attack, she insisted on giving Tony a complete check-up before she felt comfortable leaving.

As the door clicked closed behind her, Tony and Pepper resigned themselves to watching the cooking show, switching to _Downtown Abbey_ during a commercial break. The more they watched, the more tired Tony became, exhausted by both his mission and the dreams that had followed. However, each time he drifted off, he forced himself back awake, not wanting to slip back into the drugged dreams of earlier.

The second time he did this, Pepper reached over to take Tony's left hand in hers.

"Get some sleep Tony," she said, rubbing circles around the IV port. "I promise I'll be here when you wake up."

Tony nodded, feeling himself begin to drift off again. When panic simultaneously began to build, he focused on Pepper's grip on his hand, grounding him in the real world. That knowledge—that trust—was all it took for him to fall into a deep, dreamless sleep.

* * *

 **This ended up sappier than I envisioned. I hope you liked it all the same.**

 **Thanks for reading!**


	9. Chapter 9: The Nanny Diaries

"Ready Barton?" Phil Coulson asked from the driver's seat of an incognito surveillance van.

Clint nodded, pushing his glasses onto his nose and checking his earbud. "Channel seven?"

"Channel seven secure," Coulson returned promptly. He pulled the van into a temporary parking place just outside a massive building and looked over his shoulder at Barton. "Remember, it's strictly a recon mission. Do not engage."

"Heard you the first time," Barton muttered as he hopped out of the van and adjusted the single strap of the bookbag slung over his right shoulder. He was dressed in chinos, a nice shirt and Rainbows, looking for all intents and purposes to be a non-traditional college student at Harvard.

Their target was a Jefferson Maddock, a junior, who intel suggested had deep roots within Hydra. Clint, along with Natasha and Steve, were tasked with working their way into Maddock's inner circle and hopefully meeting and identifying some of his contacts. It wasn't normally Barton's kind of mission but with Coulson's other team tracking down Inhumans, new SHIELD was very short-staffed. It'd taken two days of negotiations but he finally agreed after Hill had promised to take him off the on-call schedule for the next two months.

Now, as he walked toward Kresge Hall where his first class was, he caught sight of Steve and Natasha sitting under a flowering tree, deep in conversation. He switched directions in order to approach them and to publically establish their cover as friends. He was less than one hundred feet away when he saw Nat tilt her head back slightly and Steve lean in for a prolonged kiss.

"Public displays of affection make people very uncomfortable," Clint teased once he was in arm's reach. The two snapped apart looking extremely uncomfortable.

" _Excuse_ me?" Steve demanded hotly, his eyes flashing with anger and not a bit of recognition. He was wearing khaki capris and a pink collared shirt and his hair was longer and darker than Clint had ever seen it. When he looked up, Clint was able to see that Steve's face was missing its usual lines of concern, his shoulders held back and high, for once not looking like the weight of the world was resting on them.

Perhaps he'd been too harsh on Steve during his espionage training, given that Rogers was now managing to broadcast a completely different persona who had only the slightest resemblance to Steve Rogers.

He turned his head slightly to look at Natasha, who unlike her partner, had never had a problem switching personalities. She was wearing a flowery sundress with a jean jacket over it, something Natasha herself would never have been caught in outside of work. She too was wearing a fair amount of make-up to make herself look of traditional college age and, with her hair a shade of chocolate brown instead of red, Clint found himself flashing back to the year she decided to defect to SHIELD.

The couple was staring at him expectantly so he hurried to come up with his next move. He couldn't find any normal reason for Steve's harsh reaction unless he'd been close to blowing their cover, so Clint raised his hands to show he meant no harm. "Sorry man, I thought you were someone else," he lied smoothly.

Steve's expression softened and he slowly nodded, wrapping his arm protectively around Natasha's shoulder. "No harm, no foul," he said, his voice just slightly belying the easiness of his words.

Barton took this as his cue and hurried away. "Steve, I think I owe you an apology," he muttered into his headset once he was out of distance. "That was some acting you just did."

"Negative, Barton," Natasha responded over the line. "We're still five minutes out."

Clint pulled his phone out of his pocket, pressing it to his ear, even though he hadn't dialed a number. "Come again Nat?" he said, now able to hear less of the buzzing activity around him in the comms. "I thought you said you were still five minutes out."

"Affirmative. Traffic was a nightmare. We're just getting off the freeway now."

Clint spun around, staring at the two he had assumed were Steve and Nat. The couple had just gotten up from the bench and was heading toward him, their hands low and intertwined.

As he caught his second glimpse of the two, it became obvious that they were not his teammates. To be fair though he _had_ seen the differences but had chalked it up to fantastic hair and make-up instead of lookalikes. Once, Bruce had tried to explain gene recombination to him once but he'd absorbed less than half of it, so he was still amazed (and a little creeped out) by how similar two people could look naturally.

"Sitrep, Barton," Coulson demanded, jolting him back to the present.

"Sure, _honey_ ," Clint said loudly into the receiver as not-Natasha and not-Steve approached. "Hold on," he turned away from the walking path slightly, as if to give himself and his significant other more privacy for their conversation. He continued the imaginary conversation into the comms until the two were out of earshot.

"What's going on, _honey_?" Coulson then shot back with great emphasis on the last word.

"Sorry about that," Clint was quick to say, shaking his head quickly to warn off the vague sense of déjà vu. "I just saw Natasha and Steve's doppelgangers."

"How similar?"

"Dead ringers." After glancing around quickly, Barton gave Coulson his exact coordinates so his supervisor could pull up the surrounding security camera feed.

After a full minute of keyboard clacking but no other audio, Phil replied, "I'm calling an audible. It's too much of a risk, especially after we're gone. Romanoff and Rogers, return to base. Do not be seen on campus."

"Copy that," Natasha replied and a squeal of tires could be heard as Steve pulled their modest car into a U-turn.

"Barton, you're on your own for now. I'm calling in additional back-up—should be on site within the hour."

Before Clint could protest, the clock on the nearby building ticked to the hour and began chiming, the bells a beautifully rich sound unlike anything Hawkeye had ever heard before.

"You'd better hurry, Barton," Coulson continued, "or you'll be late for class."

"On my way." Clint slid his phone into his pocket then awkwardly jogged toward the Kresge building, his flip flops smacking against the ground.

As he walked into the auditorium, he was shocked to find it completely full, the only open seats on the far side of the room.

"I thought you said no one went to class in college," Barton muttered into the comms.

"They don't, after syllabus day," Phil responded and Barton realized he was the only one on the op who was knowledgeable about such things.

"Please find a seat," the professor instructed and Barton looked down at the sunken presentation platform to see the professor staring straight at him and the other three students who had just walked in.

"Yes, of course. Sorry," they collectively muttered, walking around the top of the auditorium to get to the open seats. Clint, who hated flip flops on principle, found himself having to walk extra carefully in order to keep his footfalls light.

Those in better shoes hurried by him, filling the seats that were closest, forcing Clint to continue around the other half of the circular room. Finally, he made it to the far side and took four steps down to the desired row. Glancing left, he groaned internally as he realized the only open seat in the entire auditorium was right next to not-Steve.

"Ummm," he said awkwardly, not sure if it was alright to sit there, but not-Steve just moved his backpack under his own seat and motioned to the now empty chair. Clint stood on his toes and slid past the four students closest to the aisle, one of whom actually swore at him for being in the way.

"Sorry about earlier," Clint muttered to not-Steve when he finally reached the empty seat. He slung off his own bag then rearranged himself into the tiny chair and pulled out the hidden writing desk from in between the seats.

"Like I said, no harm, no foul," not-Steve responded easily. "Just caught us a little off-guard that's all." After a brief pause, he reached out his hand. "I'm Hayden by the way."

Clint had to turn his entire body in the tiny space but he did manage to successfully shake Hayden's hand. "Ian." Then after a brief pause, he decided it was better to state the obvious to get it out of the way then wait for it to blow up in his face later. "I'm sorry I keep staring but you look just like—"

"Captain America?"

Clint had been primed to say "his friend" without any specifics but decided Captain America was a safer option. "Yeah."

"All the time," Hayden said with a one-shouldered shrug. "I personally don't see it but it's one helluva compliment."

They both heard the professor clear his throat loudly and looked down guiltily.

"We'd better be quiet," Hayden muttered, barely audible. "I hear Professor Shultz is a big of a hard-ass."

"Thanks for the tip," Clint replied, his lips barely moving, as he pulled out his notebook and accepted a copy of the syllabus from the stack being passed down the row. He paged through it while Professor Shultz read it almost verbatim and was shocked by the amount of work involved to pass this class. He'd always known college was challenging but he hadn't expected it to be quite this much busy work.

Therefore, he was sincerely hoping that either the SHIELD interns would be writing these papers for him, or that this op was over before the semester progressed too far. Given how overworked the research department currently was, he decided it was better to focus on the latter. So, as Professor Shultz turned to a description of what to expect from lecture, Barton scanned the room and located Jefferson Maddock on the other side, surrounded by a few persons-of-interests from the briefing.

Hawkeye decided then and there that after class would be a good time to "run into" Maddock so that his target would know they had a common connection. Until then, all he could do was sit back and enjoy fifty-five minutes of policies, classroom rules and acceptable behaviors.


	10. Chapter 10: OUAT and Hansel & Gretel

Sam Wilson had just gotten back from his evening run and was currently draped over the counter gasping for breath when his phone rang. He pulled the device from his pocket and, upon seeing his sister's name on the caller ID, answered with a raspy, "Yell-o."

"Sam," was all Shauna managed before Sam straightened up, the hairs on the back of his neck rising as he heard the slight wobble in her voice.

"What's wrong?" he demanded.

"Marcus fell off the ladder trying to clean the rain gutter and broke his arm. We have to go get it set and I can't get a hold of the babysitter—"

Sam leaned his head all the way back and stared at the ceiling in relief. He barely managed to refrain from saying, _Is that all?_ , since, for his sister, this was a huge deal but it wasn't nearly as bad as the situations he had been imagining. "What do you need me to do?"

"I know you don't set bones anymore," she began and, although she was miles away, Sam nodded. While he could do it in an emergency, there were others far better equipped to do it properly not far from Shauna's house. "So can you come sit with Nina for a few hours? We checked online and it doesn't look like ER wait times are too long. You'd really be helping us out."

"I'm on my way," Sam promised, grabbing his keys and heading for the door.

Thirty minutes later, he pulled up to his sister's house in Arlington, parking on the street and sliding the pass Shauna had given him last year onto his rearview mirror so he wouldn't get ticketed. He grabbed his go-bag out of the trunk, locked the car, then walked quickly to the old-fashioned mahogany door.

Before he could knock, the door swung open and he was pulled into a large hug. "You're the best big brother ever," Shauna muttered into his shoulder, her voice thick with repressed emotion.

"Tell me something I don't know," he said in an attempt to lighten the mood. Sure enough, as his sister pulled away, he saw the corner of her mouth lift ever so slightly.

"Hey Sam," Marcus said from further inside the house. He was standing in the center of the entryway, cradling his right arm against his chest. It was already in a sling that had seen better days with a large ice pack sitting on top of his forearm.

"Hey yourself," Sam shot back, walking over to where Marcus was standing and squeezing his good shoulder in lieu of a handshake. "Don't you know you're not supposed to fall off those things?"

Marcus shrugged, then winced as the motion jarred his arm. "I tried man. That only made it worse."

Before Marcus could explain all the details, Sam asked, "Where's Nina?"

Marcus tilted his head back slightly to indicate she was standing behind him. Sam nodded and took another step forward, now able to see a little girl in purple pajamas holding on to the back of her dad's leg.

"Say hi to Uncle Sam, sweetie," Shauna coached.

Nina rolled her head in Sam's direction without it ever losing contact with Marcus' leg. From this angle, Sam could see her red-rimmed eyes as well as the stuffed animal, whose exact species had been lost many washes ago, tucked under her arm. "Hi," she mumbled before burying her face back into her dad's pant leg.

Knowing he had to act quickly, Sam whistled through the gap in his teeth. "Look at you," he began, dropping to his knees. "Last time I saw you, you were only about this tall." He held his hand up about a foot and a half off the ground, expecting the girl to react by vivaciously declaring she had never been that short but she didn't so much as look over to see how high up his hand was.

Sam looked over at Shauna who mouthed "she's tired". Sam just nodded then motioned that his sister should probably get going, as the situation wasn't looking like it was going to get any better.

It was Shauna's turn to nod before she knelt down beside her daughter and tapped her fingers under Nina's chin to get her to look toward her mother.

"Daddy and I have to go to the grown-up doctor now," Shauna told her daughter who shook her head and shifted further behind Marcus.

"Don't go, daddy," she muttered.

"We talked about this sweetie. We'll be back before you know it."

"No!" she exclaimed with the first real emotion Sam had seen all night. She then wrapped her arms around Marcus' leg, interlacing her hands on the other side so her grip couldn't be broken.

The corner of Shauna's mouth quirked slightly with mild annoyance as she looked up at Marcus and motioned for him to give it his best shot.

"Daddy has an owie, Nina," Marcus said slowly, twisting his neck so he could look down at her. "The doctor is going to make it better. You want daddy to get better don't you?"

"Yes," Nina ground out after a long moment though her tone suggested otherwise.

"Then you stay here with Uncle Sam and I'll be back in no time."

"When's 'no time'?" Nina asked.

"As soon as I can, baby," he replied, reaching down with his good hand and flicking her pigtails. She stared up at her father for a long moment then detached herself from his leg.

"I love you Neens." Marcus said, kissing his hand then resting it on her cheek.

As he grabbed his jacket, Shauna gave her daughter a quick hug then stood and said to Sam, "She's already had dinner but there's snacks on the counter if she gets hungry. Don't worry about a bath tonight. Just get her to bed by eight."

"No problem Shauna," Sam replied, following them to the door and locking it behind them.

He then turned back to Nina, who hadn't moved from the center of the room, one arm still wrapped tightly around her stuffed animal. Her chin began to quiver and Sam knew he only had a moment before the waterworks started.

"So what do you want to do kiddo?" he asked, gesturing widely with his hands to symbolize the many possibilities. "We could watch a movie, or play a game, or read a book?"

As much as she obviously didn't want to, her eyes lit up at the promise of a book. Sam latched onto that and continued, "I think we should read a book. What about you?"

The girl considered this for a long and dramatic moment then nodded. "Okay, I go get one."

Nina tossed Sam the stuffed animal then sprinted upstairs, holding on tightly to the handrail. Less than a minute later, she was back, walking down the stairs much more slowly since she was holding a large leather-bound book with two hands. She didn't even pause when she hit the first floor, instead heading straight for the living room where two large stuffed recliners sat facing a television. She launched the book onto the seat then climbed up herself, patting the area beside her for Sam to sit.

There wasn't enough room for the two of them despite Nina's small frame, so Sam effortlessly picked her and the book up, sat down first and settled his niece into his lap, sliding the stuffed animal back under one of Nina's arms. She immediately hugged it and dropped a kiss on its greyish head.

" _Once Upon A Time_?" he asked, taking his first good look at the reddish book.

Nina nodded, bouncing up and down, showing excitement for the first time since Sam had arrived. To avoid a groin injury, Sam shifted her onto one leg, then opened the thick book cover.

"Once upon a time, there was a little girl. She had lips red as the rose, hair black as ebony and skin white as snow."

"Snow White!" Nina cheered, jabbing a finger at the full page picture opposite the text.

"That's right," Sam praised. He then proceeded to read about Snow White's early years, including her friendship with Johanna and her losing her mother on her birthday. This incredibly sad start initially gave Sam pause until he realized that this happened in the Disney movie as well, which he was sure Nina had seen, so, after ensuring his niece wasn't the least bit upset, he mentally shrugged and kept going.

From there, the story continued as Sam expected with Snow's father taking The Evil Queen's hand in marriage, but he was surprised by some of the added details such as the fact that this engagement had occurred after Regina saved Snow from a wild horse, that Regina was already engaged to a stable boy named Daniel, and that Snow excitedly shared this news with Cora, Regina's mother, who proceeded to have Daniel killed in order to have her daughter marry royalty.

"What kind of book is this?" Sam asked in concern, flipping to the opening pages to read the publisher's information and possibly any author's notes warning small children away from this dark tale.

"A good one!" Nina said, bouncing wildly until Sam tightened his grip on her middle and brought her to a stop.

She glared at him over her shoulder and must have seen his concerned expression, for she turned completely around and cupped her hands around his face. "Don't worry Uncle Sammy," she said seriously. "Snow and Regina become bestest friends in Storybrooke. They gots Henry to look after."

Sam flipped back to the page he had just read aloud and scanned it quickly. "Who is Henry?"

"You'll find out." Nina giggled. "Keep reading! Keep reading!"

Sam reluctantly did as she asked and learned how Regina then vowed to ruin Snow who, many years later, had fallen in love with Prince Charming and was expecting a child: The Savior, the author called her. On the day the child was born and subsequently sent through a wardrobe to another world, Regina cast a curse sending the entire Enchanted Forest to a town in Maine called Storybrooke where the characters lived in a time warp, not knowing who they truly were, until The Savior returned to the town to make things right. After that, it was a lot of 'good triumphs over evil' with the not-really-that-evil switching to the right side in the end to protect the town against the other villains that lived in Storybrooke.

"The end?" Sam read when he came to the last page of the first chapter, saying it as more of a question than a statement.

"Next chapter please," Nina encouraged, flipping the page and pointing excitedly at the title. "Read about Emma."

Even though he was concerned about the unpleasant arc _this_ chapter might take, Sam knew this was better than Nina's tears. Mentally justifying it with the fact that his sister must have bought the book and had therefore okayed its content, he proceeded to read chapter after chapter of fairy tale characters, all of which followed the same pattern: after a brief origin story in the Forest, the majority of the chapter was spent depicting their struggles living in modern-day Storybrooke. While Nina had initially been very excited and alert, with every page she sagged more and more against his chest until Sam was sure she was asleep.

He had closed the book less than halfway when he heard Nina drowsily mumble, "Keep...going…" Before she could wake up further, Sam quickly threw the book back open and continued reading about Little Red Riding Hood whose alter-ego was a werewolf named Ruby, Jiminy Cricket who was a psychologist named Archie, and Cinderella who was a "Mommy and Me" yoga instructor named Ashley, happily married to none other than Prince Thomas.

He heard Nina's breathing steady out but, not wanting to risk her waking fully, flipped to the next chapter to find a full-page picture of a father and daughter playing in the woods. Sam did a double take as he squinted at the father's face. While he read the intro to Jefferson and Grace's tale, he managed to pull out his phone with his left hand and snap a picture, captioning it, _Found this in a weird-ass children's book. Look familiar?_ He grinned then sent the message in the Avengers' group chat.

He was about to continue the story when he heard a faint snoring coming from his chest and looked down to Nina officially conked out. He left his phone on the chair and slowly carried Nina up to her room, laying her down in her bed and arranging the stuffed animal right beside her.

"Good night sweetie," he whispered as he pulled the covers up to her shoulders and kissed her on her forehead.

After leaving the door cracked slightly open so he could hear if Nina got restless, Sam headed back downstairs and checked his phone to find a text from Bucky. The message itself was filled with profanity but the gist of it was, _What the hell?_

 _I know right?_ Sam sent back with a 'laughing so hard I'm crying' emoji.

 _Where did you find that?_ Steve asked a second later.

 _One of Nina's storybooks. Looks just like Bucky, doesn't it?_

 _If we fluffed out his hair,_ Natasha replied with a laughing emoji of her own. _I think we should try it...for an accurate comparison._

 _Stop it, all of you,_ Bucky responded, followed by a knife emoji.

 _You love us, Bucky,_ Natasha was bold enough to say.

Sam sat back in the chair and quickly skimmed the rest of Jefferson and Grace's origin story.

 _Apparently you're the Mad Hatter who uses his hat to ferry people between worlds. Yes, worlds, plural. You read that correctly. This book is weird,_ Sam typed out. He'd originally wanted to add the Storybrook component before sending but, after reading the rest of the chapter and discovering how Jefferson was cursed with remembering their old life while his daughter lived on with another family, oblivious of his existence, he decided against it since Jefferson's story hit a little too close to home.

He thumbed the Send button, then, since his curiosity was piqued, scanned the rest of the book to see what other fairy tales had been modified. He made it about another fourth of the way through the book when he spotted another familiar face.

 _There's one of you too, Clint,_ Sam wrote, snapping a picture of the illustration of Clint and a deadly-looking woman, each with an assortment of guns and knives strapped to their bodies. The woman had a crossbow draped easily over her shoulder which was supposed to give the reader the impression she was comfortable using it. Sam quickly perused that chapter then added to the image: _Looks like Hansel and Gretel grew up to be Witch Hunters._

 _What the heck are you reading your niece?_ Clint was quick to respond.

 _I don't know, man. She loves it though. She's out like a light._

 _I want to know why you're not carrying the crossbow,_ Bucky helpfully wrote.

 _I don't know. Ask Sam, he's the expert in all of this...Maybe in that universe the crossbow is an inferior weapon,_ Clint replied.

Sam winced as he read, knowing Clint had set himself up for a very particular response, all the while hoping no one would rise to the bait.

Unfortunately Bucky did: _Or she's better than you._

Clint's response consisted of a lot of swear words and a graphic description of what Bucky should do next.

 _Sounds like some full-on Grimms shit,_ Clint added a second later, his words obviously directed at Sam. _You sure she likes it?_

 _Cross my heart. The sad part is, I haven't even told you the 'best' parts._ Sam then summarized the death and rezombification of Daniel and the tragic life of Neil, father of Emma's son, Henry.

 _You read this to her as a bedtime story?_ Steve chimed in, using asterisks to emphasis the word 'bedtime'.

 _I mean, I glossed over the worst of it. I'm not an idiot._

 _I'd still keep an eye out for nightmares,_ Clint wrote. _Cooper insisted he was old enough to read Goosebumps when he was six and he was up for days afterwards._

 _I'm on it._

He waited a moment for another response but when none came, he put the phone down and turned on the television. While he made due with network television at his place, Shauna and Marcus paid for the full cable package so, after kicking the footrest up, he scrolled through their 200+ channels and settled on a March Madness game.

At the start of the fourth quarter, Sam heard a key in the lock. He instantly tensed, shifting his grip on the remote so he could throw it if need be, but relaxed when he saw his sister.

"How'd it go?" he asked, rising to his feet and stretching his arms over his head.

In lieu of response, Marcus held up his arm to reveal the baby blue cast. "They ran out of all the decent colors."

"Poor baby," Shauna drawled as she patted his shoulder in mock sympathy. Her serious face lasted for a split second before both she and her husband burst into laughter.

"Good to hear," Sam said, reaching for his duffel. "I'll be on my way then."

Shauna quickly walked over and laid her hand on his so he couldn't move the bag. "It's late. Why don't you stay? Guest room is all made up."

Sam considered this for a long moment since he didn't want to be an imposition but when he saw Shauna's expression, he sighed. "If you're sure."

"We're sure." Shauna picked up his bag and marched him into the guest bedroom, depositing the bag on the bed. "You know where the bathroom is. There's extra toiletries under the sink and more blankets in the cabinet. Do you need anything else?"

"No. I'm good. You guys get some sleep," Sam quickly replied, seeing the exhausted expression on his sister's face.

Instead of walking out the door, Shauna stepped closer to Sam and rested her hand on his shoulder. "Thanks so much for helping out."

"Not a problem." Sam had been content to leave it at that, but realized this was his opening to bring up the book. "We just read _Once Upon A Time_ until she fell asleep."

Shauna's eyes widened slightly but she fought to kept the rest of her expression level. "What did you think?"

Sam tilted his head indecisively, realizing this was a test of sorts. "I mean, it's a little weird," he said noncommittally.

That must have been the right answer for Shauna's face lit up and she dropped into the chair by the reading nook. "Thank goodness you think so too. Marcus and I are on the same page about it but it's all the kids at school talk about apparently. Nina begged for weeks for a copy."

"There's just a lot of death and unhappiness."

"I know. We try to skip over some of it—not the concepts you know, cos it's important she learns about that stuff and feels comfortable talking to us about it—but the semi-graphic detail, like how Cora rips out Daniel's heart Aztec-style."

"That's probably a good idea," Sam said, glad he'd done that as well. "She hasn't had any nightmares or anything?"

"Not a one. I guess she really is growing up," Shauna finished, almost sadly.

"She's five."

"Yeah but it was just yesterday that I could hold her in my arms." Shauna went on to cradle an imaginary child in her arms, looking up sadly at her brother.

Sam bit back a laugh at her expression and made himself say, "Good night Shauna," in a level tone, before his sister could continue her antics.

"Good night Sam," she said, hopping to her feet and smiling widely as she left the guest bedroom.

Sam quickly did his usual nighttime workout and stretching routine, ending with 50 push-ups and 100 sit-ups, before he crawled under the covers of the incredibly soft guest bed. He didn't bother to set an alarm, knowing Nina would wake him up long before then, and drifted off to a sleep filled with the fairy tale characters he knew and loved adjusting to living in Storybrooke.

* * *

 **Thanks for reading! Hope everyone has a great Steve Rogers' birthday on Monday!**


	11. Chapter 11: Moneyball and Guardians

**There's a lot of build-up for this chapter but we will meet Scott Hatteburg (and Peter Quill) in the end!** **I also took some liberties with Thor's vision to fill the time in which we saw him onscreen and not the dream itself.**

* * *

"You're awfully close, Clint."

"Cap, I'm sixty feet away from you. I'm fine."

"Yeah but what if—"

"You're not going to hurt me," Clint repeated with great exasperation as he squatted down behind the crumpled sweater serving at home plate and slid a catcher's mitt onto his right hand. "Now, will ya throw the ball so I can see what we're dealing with?"

The LA Dodgers had been asking Steve to throw first pitch at a home game for a few months now. Each time he'd agreed to do it though, something had interfered at the last minute, keeping him from actually attending. Once it had been a horde of ant animatronics that tried to rob the Federal Reserve (a new super from San Francisco had been on the hook for this for weeks until his alibi finally checked out). Another time, the whole team had come down with a horrible case of food poisoning. Then there had been the terrorist who had tried to drop a bomb on an oceanic seismic fault; the molemen who spent years building tunnels underground to compromise the structural integrity of a small Midwest city; one of Steve's missions going wrong, earning him an extra week's stay in Kazakhstan; and more. With the end of the season in sight, the pressure to get Steve on the field was so great that Fury had been forced to give him the entire week off in order to avoid a mass exodus of overworked employees from the PR department.

Which meant, now, all Steve had to focus on was throwing a tiny ball at a decent speed into a glove sixty feet away, in front of tens of thousands of people. It wasn't so much the aim he was worried about, it was more the possibility of breaking the catcher's hand if he threw it too hard. Clint, who had seen how apprehensive Steve was about the whole thing, had offered his assistance in helping the supersoldier throw like a normal human being.

"Just give it a chance," Clint pressed when Steve remained standing on the makeshift pitcher's mound, rolling the baseball around in his palm. The archer then punched the mitt with his left hand and held it away from his body in proper catching form. "Fire it in here. Quarter speed."

Steve still looked hesitant but he opened his stance slightly, pulled back his arm and threw the baseball with a fraction of his usual strength. Despite his efforts, the small ball whizzed out of his hand at a greater speed than he had intended. Quickly realizing the pitch was moving too fast for him to catch, Clint dove out of its way, landing hard on his back. The ball sped through where his chest had once been and smashed into the far wall, leaving a sizeable dent.

"Okay," Clint panted as he sat up. "That might be a little fast."

"Sorry," Steve said sheepishly.

Clint just rolled his eyes and flipped himself back into a squat. "Try it again," he instructed, motioning toward the pile of balls at Steve's feet.

This time, Steve threw the ball as lightly as he could with absolutely no wind-up, his hips staying square to Clint the entire time. The ball bounced ten feet from "home plate" then rolled the rest of the distance, coming to a stop against Clint's sneaker.

Barton bit back a laugh at both the pitch and way Steve was scowling at the ball, as if it was somehow at fault. "That might be a little soft, Goldilocks. Though if you wanted to go viral this weekend, that's the way to do it."

"Me breaking the catcher's hand will go viral just as fast," Steve retorted.

"That's true. Which is why you need to keep practicing." Clint snatched the ball and threw it to Steve who caught it effortlessly in gloved left hand. "This time, start with your hips toward the wall, like you did the first time, but focus on bringing your arm through slower."

Steve followed Clint's suggestion and, this time, the ball sped toward the glove at a much more reasonable pace. Clint had been prepared to catch it but changed his mind at the last second and again dove out of the way.

"I told you this was a bad idea," Steve scowled, this time hurrying over to where Clint was lying on the ground.

"It's fine, Cap. I probably could have caught it. It was just a little too fast."

"No way you could have caught that," a male voice said. Both Steve and Clint looked up to see Tony leaning over the railing of the second-floor running track, a radar gun in hand. "It was going 175 miles an hour."

Rogers groaned. "What are you doing here, Stark?" he asked, pawing at his forehead with the glove.

"JARVIS warned me of impending structural damage," Tony explained as he descended the stairs. "I wanted to check it out."

"We've got it covered, thanks."

"Testy," Tony turned to Clint. "Has he been like this all day?"

"Ever since Fury gave him the week off."

"I have not," Steve protested, looking genuinely betrayed. "I just don't want to hurt the catcher."

"Well, you don't want to throw that second pitch again either," Tony ever-so-tactfully pointed out.

Steve turned so he could fix the inventor with both his patented death glare and an unamused expression.

"Well do you?" Tony asked, pursing his lips as he waited for a reply.

"No," Steve finally ground out.

"Perfect. Bruce and I will work on designing something that will absorb the force of the ball—"

"That's really not necessary—"

"—of course it is. You don't want to break Clint's hand, do you?"

Steve didn't dignify that question with a response.

Tony waited for another moment then nodded enthusiastically. "I thought not." He dropped the radar gun onto a bench then grabbed one of the folded mats propped against the wall and struggled to drag it across the room. "Don't just stand there, muscles. Do your part."

Steve inhaled deeply then strode over to the wall where he grabbed two more mats and carried them over to the newly dented wall, stacking them against the one Tony had positioned. By the time he had turned back around, Clint and Tony were fashioning an attachment for the archer's glove from athletic tape and, when they were finished, they hung it in front of the first mat.

"We need to establish a baseline," Tony stated as he retrieved the radar gun. "So throw as fast as you can from there." He motioned toward the center of the gym.

"This has nothing to do with the modified glove, does it?" Steve questioned as he walked toward the spot Tony had indicated.

Stark grinned. "You know me so well."

Instead of replying, Steve took a moment to calibrate the new distance to the wall. Then he wound up with proper form and released the ball at the apex of his swing, sending it flying through the air and smashing into the catcher's mitt. Unfortunately, he'd thrown the ball so fast that it tore straight through the glove and continued ripping through the mats.

"I didn't even see it!" Clint exclaimed as he raced to the far end of the room to inspect the damage.

"He didn't even hit 300 MPH," Tony said sadly, staring at the back of the radar gun. "Was that the best you got?"

"I don't know," Steve responded, walking over to the old "pitcher's mound" and picking up another ball. "It's different than throwing my shield."

"Stopped in the third mat," Clint reported as he hurried back over, the slightly oval-shaped ball in hand.

"Well the mats were reinforced to handle any goings-on in the training area, so that in itself is rather impressive. JARVIS, have DUM-E bring the ballistics gel we've been preparing and let Bruce know where we are."

"As you wish, sir," the AI replied.

Less than a minute later, DUM-E zipped in, carrying a three-foot-long tube of yellowish gel.

"Over there is fine," Tony said, motioning toward the mats. The little bot chirped then rolled off to deposit the gel before speeding out of the gym, almost running into Bruce in the process.

"Hey guys," the physicist greeted as he walked into the gym, a bag of tools and an armful of what looked like different sized patches tucked under his arm.

"How long have you been working on those?" Steve asked as DUM-E rolled back into the room dragging a card table, which he left by the ballistics gel.

Bruce looked over his shoulder at Tony who shrugged nonchalantly. "A few."

"A few what? Hours? Days?"

"Weeks," Tony admitted with a wince. "Since before your first 'first pitch'."

"Guys, I—"

"No need to thank us yet. We're not sure any of them work. Now go get a drink or something. We've got some assembling to do."

Five minutes later, Bruce summoned Clint and Steve back to the far side of the training room, where the table had been unfolded in front of the mats. The gel was sitting lengthwise on its surface, bridged by two strips of perforated pipe strap, whose ends were bolted to the table. What was left of Clint's catcher's mitt was hanging from the front side of the gel, closest to Steve, and a blue pad had been taped into its palm.

"Alrighty Cap. Try it now," Tony instructed excitedly as he and Bruce stepped back to admire their work.

Steve rolled his shoulders then pitched another ball, which blasted through the blue pad, the glove and about a quarter of the way through the gel.

"How fast, JARVIS?"

"293 miles an hour."

"Record it," Tony instructed before turning to the soldier. "C'mon Cap. No need to hold back. Let's see what you have."

Steve spent the next half hour throwing ball after ball into various paddings, which were of different textures, sizes and densities. With each pitch, his speed slowly increased, especially as he honed in on the proper mechanics.

After his third consecutive pitch at 335 mph, Tony intervened. "Impressive Cap, as always, but you can stop now. I think you've maxed out."

Bruce looked up from the tablet where he'd been collating the data to see Steve shifting uncomfortably. Before he could say anything though, Clint spoke up. "You just threw at 335 mile-an-hour baseball with fairly decent form, Steve. Why aren't you more excited?"

"Because I would like to not tear off the catcher's hand in two days."

"We can use these results to build the best pad to place in the catcher's mitt. Obviously none of those samples were it but there's a lot of good data about what did and didn't work. That way, even if you throw it a little fast, their catcher won't be harmed," Bruce said, receiving a grateful nod from Steve for his efforts.

"Or you could just have me catch the stupid ball." Everyone looked up to see Bucky Barnes leaning over the railing of the running track. "I mean, I can catch his shield right?"

This time, Tony glanced over at Bruce who shrugged. "I don't see why not," Banner said, after a long moment's consideration.

"Bucky, I don't—"

"I'll be fine, Steve." As if to prove his point, Bucky leapt off the track and landed gracefully on his toes on the main level.

"Showoff," Tony muttered.

Barnes grinned widely at him then walked over to Steve, silently holding out his hand.

"I don't think this is a good idea," Steve repeated.

Bucky tapped on his left arm with his fingernails, the metallic clicking resonating through the room. "You literally can't hurt me. We'll just keep at it until you can throw at a decent speed…What is that these days?" he asked, turning to face the rest of the team.

"105," Clint recited before JARVIS could. "Aroldis Chapman...September 2011," he added with a sheepish grin.

Bucky nodded then turned back to Steve, hand still out. "So pitch just over 105 and you're golden."

Steve stared at Bucky for a long moment then, realizing he wasn't going to win, slipped his left hand out of the mitt and dropped it into Bucky's outstretched palm. Barnes immediately slid the mitt on his metal hand then strode over to Clint's bunched up sweater, where he dropped into crouch and stuck out his gloved hand, his right arm resting on his lower back for balance.

He didn't even flinch as Steve's pitch thudded against his hand.

"How fast was that?"

"194 mph."

"Keep the form, slow down your arm," Clint instructed as he demonstrated the correct motion.

Steve watched him intently then pitched again.

"178."

By the time the sun went down, Steve had honed in on the 110 range and was hitting the center of the catcher's mitt with pretty decent accuracy. He was raring to keep going but Clint called it a day, citing Steve would be lucky if he wasn't sore tomorrow as is, given the large number of balls he'd thrown.

"See?" Bucky said, as he stood for the first time in half an hour. "Told you you'd be fine."

Steve walked over and patted his friend on the shoulder. "Thanks to all this help, I actually kinda believe it."

He turned to face the rest of the team, his question about dinner dying in his throat as he saw Tony bouncing up and down on the balls of his feet, his hand raised high in the air like a kid asking a question in school.

"Yes, Tony?" Steve asked, his body tensing as if subconsciously realizing he knew he wasn't going to like what is coming next.

"CanBuckycatchthefullspeedpitch?"

Luckily, the serum had given Steve enhanced hearing; that combined with years of listening to Tony and Bruce's quickfire lab speak allowed him to decipher what Tony had actually said. "It might ruin his arm!" he protested, frowning at the inventor.

"We'll build him a new one," Clint replied and was promptly fixed with questioning looks from everyone in the room. "Tony and Bruce will build him a new one," he amended, with a semantic shrug.

Steve still looked unhappy but he turned to Bucky and said, "It's up to you."

"Why not," Bucky sighed. Since they were mostly already to the exit, he just crouched in front the vertical mats and held his left hand at ninety degrees from his body.

By that time, Steve had already put a fair bit of distance between them. "You're sure about this?" he clarified from the other side of the room as he picked up one of the last still round balls.

"Just throw it, Steve. I'm hungry."

Steve shrugged then pitched the ball like he had done earlier with full wind-up, torque and follow-through. The ball crashed into Bucky's hand but the former Soldier easily closed his fingers around it.

"Piece of cake," he grinned as he lobbed the ball at Clint.

"If only you could do that at the game," Clint said, tossing the ball high to himself and catching it behind his back. "That would be so sick!"

"No!" Steve cut off whatever Tony had been about to say. "We're doing exactly what the PR department requested. I pitch the ball to the Dodgers' catcher, smile and wave, then the game goes on as planned."

"Whatever you say, Cap," Tony reluctantly agreed. As soon as Steve was out of earshot though, he hurried next to Barnes and whispered, "Don't make any plans for Saturday."

* * *

Four days later, Steve stood on the pitchers' mound in the new Dodgers' stadium, wearing a custom uniform shirt with his last name printed on the back. The announcer had just finished his introduction and the arena had fallen silent, waiting for Steve to kick things off.

Steve took a second to wave at the crowd, then wound up and pitched the ball toward home plate. The ball left his hand correctly and sailed through the air, landing directly in the center of Yasmani Grandal's glove. Grandal immediately stood and raised the glove triumphantly into the air, his grin splitting his face in half.

Steve jogged toward the mound and happily signed the ball Grandal had caught before taking a picture with the grinning catcher.

"Throw it faster!" someone in the crowd yelled. The shout caught like lightning and suddenly almost everyone in the arena was cheering for him to let loose.

Steve glanced over at the dugout where Tony, Pepper, Bruce, Clint and Natasha were standing, Bucky nowhere in sight. He saw Tony signal that he had it under control before turning away to tap out a quick text.

Seconds later, another man wearing in a Dodgers' uniform and full catcher's gear entered the field from along the first base foul line, quickly hurrying over to the plate. Steve saw the slight strut to man's steps and knew the second catcher was Bucky. As he headed back to the mound, Barnes conversed quickly with Grandal, who nodded then headed back toward the Dodgers' dugout. Once he was off the field, Bucky tipped his head at the umpire then crouched down and hit his glove with his other hand, signaling he was ready to catch.

Steve grinned widely, reared back, and fired in a second ball at just under his fastest speed. The ball thunked into Bucky's outstretched hand and the crowd went wild.

As Steve strode back to the home plate, Bucky stood and thrust the ball into the air, just as Grandal had done.

"Show yourself!" someone yelled, obviously wanting to know who had been able to catch that ball without damage.

Caught up in the moment, Bucky pulled off his mask and grinned widely at the audience, who fell silent as they recognized the former Winter Soldier. Though Bucky had been doing a lot for his public image after the fall of the Triskelion, he was still something of a pariah, even after being formally cleared of all charges in his trial four months ago.

Though he did his best to hide it, his face fell slightly at the silence and, before Steve could say anything, he'd forced a fake smile back on his face then began walking toward the dugout, tossing Grandal the second ball as he passed.

Then, suddenly, someone in the audience cheered, "That's awesome!" and the spell was broken. More than a few people in the crowd erupted into applause and wolf whistles while someone just behind the dugout shouted, "You go Barnes!"

Bucky's face broke into a wild grin and he grabbed Steve's hand, raising both into the air.

The cheering continued until the umpire motioned for Steve and Bucky to leave the field so the game could begin. As they began walking along the on-field exit, the Dodgers took the field, the announcer calling out their names in time to their photos showing on the big screen. When they were passing the A's dugout, Thor froze, spun around and ran backward the way they came.

"The hell?" Tony asked as they took off after him, fearing for some sort of imminent disaster but, instead of heading for the stands, Thor effortlessly hopped over the railing to the dugout, caught Oakland's number 10 by the back of his jersey and spun him around.

"Who are you?" the Asgardian demanded, grabbing the player's shoulders and shaking him roughly. The rest of the A's stepped forward to defend their teammate but, upon recognizing Thor, all backed off.

"Scott Hatteburg," the man squeaked out. "Please don't hurt me. I have a wife and kids."

"Thor!" Steve shouted as he and Bucky jumped into the dugout. The rest of the team lined up along the rail, as there wasn't room for them in the dugout itself. "Let him go."

"I cannot. He was in my vision."

Steve's eyes widened and he looked Hatteburg up and down. "The A's first baseman was in your vision about the Infinity Gems?" he clarified as the rest of the team ran up.

Thor hesitated. "Well, no. Not dressed like this. He was wearing a brown tunic of sorts and was holding a spherical container for the Purple Gem."

"I don't have any purple gems," Hatteburg cut in nervously. "I could barely afford my wife's wedding ring."

"Let him go, Thor," Steve reached out and rested his hand on Thor's forearm.

After a moment, the god nodded then released Hatteburg's jersey. "He also was with a tree, a green-skinned warrior, a talking raccoon and a most unusual blue-skinned man with tattoos."

"Well that settles it," Hatteburg chuckled nervously, readjusting his jersey. "I don't have any friends like that. I'm obviously not the guy you're thinking of."

"But you wear his face. It is most unusual." As if suddenly realizing he was being rude, Thor quickly stepped back, restoring Hatteburg's personal space. "I am sorry, Mr. Hatteburg, for confusing you with the man in my dream."

"It's okay," the first basemen said lamely, staring at the rest of the Avengers for cues on what to say next.

Fortunately for him, the second umpire had reached them and, after taking a step down into the dugout, demanded, "What's going on here?"

"A simple misunderstanding," Steve explained, raising his hands slightly to show they meant no harm.

"He reminds me of a great friend on Asgard," Thor boomed loudly enough for the entire team and any fan who was close enough to hear, lest they think something was amiss. "A mighty warrior."

"We'll be leaving now," Steve said, taking Thor's elbow and leading him and the team out of the dugout and off the field. They then hung a left and took a flight of stairs up to their box seats that had been provided by the Dodgers. Steve had tried to turn them down, citing it was too much, but Coulson intervened after hearing scuttlebut from SHIELD's PR department and informed Steve that he'd graciously accept.

"I swear to you all that Hatteburg wears the face of the man in my vision," Thor said once they were by themselves in the box.

"And we believe you. It's just that it obviously wasn't Hatteburg." Tony paused. "Unless trees and raccoons talk on Asgard."

"I don't believe I know what a raccoon is."

"We'll have plenty of time to discuss this..Steve?" Tony looked to his left and realized the Captain was no longer at his side. He spun around, then saw Steve sitting in the first row of seats, eyes glued to the game.

As if sensing he was being watched, Steve glanced back over his shoulder, looking slightly guilty. "I don't suppose this could wait until after the game?"

Thor nodded. "Of course." He walked over and dropped into the seat next to Steve. "Besides, I'm very intrigued for you to explain this game to me," he added as the A's first batter walked up to the plate.

There was no denying the genuine smile on Steve's face as he began to explain the rules of baseball to the demi-god.

* * *

Although the team did believe in Thor's vision, it wasn't for a few more years that they actually ran into Scott Hatteburg's doppelganger, a space pirate nicknamed Star Lord who once hailed from Earth. He'd landed a flying spaceship in the middle of Central Park and the Avengers had been dispatched to deal with him and his team before learning they were friendlies. Just as Thor had seen, Peter Quill was accompanied by a walking and talking tree, a smart mouthed raccoon (which Thor loved, not at all understanding why people from Earth found these critters so repulsive), a green-skinned woman who befriended Natasha in an hour which, according to Clint, set some sort of record, and a light-blue skinned man with salmon-colored tattoos who took everything far too literally. They didn't have much time to dwell on it though, for not long after their arrival, Thanos, a Titan set into motion his plan to destroy the human race. As this had been the main reason The Guardians were in such close proximity to Earth, they'd immediately offered their assistance.

After the battle, the Guardians had been set to head home when the Avengers managed to convince them to take some much needed R&R on Earth. Besides, Quill's ship, while functional, needed a fair amount of work which Tony and Bruce eagerly offered to help. Quill had scoffed, saying their knowledge of electronics would be elemental to some of the things he had seen, but accepted their help in the end, mostly for the human companionship. In the process, Stark was delighted to discover that Quill had an appreciation for oldies and took it upon himself to introduce him to the eighties in all its various wonderful forms.

While they worked on the ship, the rest of the Avengers were more than happy to spend time with the rest of the Guardians.

Natasha and Gamora spent a majority of their time in the gym exchanging moves and strategies but Natasha ensured they spent a fair amount of time doing stereotypical female activities: shopping, yoga, salons, massages, the works. Natasha had never been much for any of these things for herself but, once she learned about Gamora's backstory, she was determined to show Gamora that it was alright to splurge for things like this, even though they seemed to not have any useful purpose other than to make her feel good.

To no one's surprise but Bucky himself, Barnes spend most of his time with Rocket and the growing Groot, learning about the weapons designs of the other planets and just what other threats were out there. Steve always danced in for the latter discussions where he quickly tried to turn them into strategy meetings before the rest of the group kicked him for being too serious. Slightly chastised, Steve then split his time pretty evenly across all the groups that were forming, getting to be well-acquainted with all the Guardians but keeping the "shop talk" to a minimum unless the topic was breached first by someone else.

Thor was paired off with Drax and he took it upon himself to introduce Drax to all the things that had amazed him about this planet when he'd first arrived. Before long, they'd even pulled in Clint, who, after procuring a quinjet, took both teams on a tour of the States' greatest landmarks and parks.

Needless to say the entire team was sad when the ship was fully functional and the Guardians received word that their expertise was needed in a different part of the universe. Hugs were given, technology exchanged so they could stay in touch and, as a parting gift, Tony gave Peter a digitized copy of his mixtapes, still in the old-fashioned tape husks. This way though, the physical tape would never snap or need to be respooled with a pencil, which were somewhat of a rare commodity in the rest of the galaxy.

The rest of the Guardians had groaned, knowing they were destined to hear the same twenty-four songs on repeat but, upon seeing how happy their leader was, found they really didn't mind so much after all.


	12. Chapter 12: The Martian

_Just to shake things up, we're going to try this one from a different point of view._

 _Thanks to hsm1974 for the prompt!_

* * *

Dr. Chris Beck walked into the rec room at the training center, nodded politely at the other Ares 3 hopefuls, then dropped into the only unoccupied arm chair, feeling himself relax for the first time in eighteen hours. He had just allowed his eyes to slip closed for a quick nap when his phone chirped.

"No," he groaned, throwing his arm dramatically over his forehead.

"Maybe it's Beeee-th," Mark Watney sang from somewhere to Beck's left. Suddenly, Chris felt a hand squirm between his side and the arm rest and threw himself to the right, curling in on himself with his back to Watney and his phone clutched to his chest, so the botanist couldn't see the screen.

"Personal space much?" he deadpanned, glaring at Watney over his shoulder.

"Dude, if we make it, we'll be in close quarters for a year," Mark responded as he curled up on the armrest then leaned forward so his head was resting on Beck's shoulder.

"G'off!" Beck threw his arm back, dislodging Watney from the edge of the chair and sending him crashing to the ground. While the botanist clutched at his arm and whined dramatically, Beck peeked at his phone, seeing an email icon in the notification tab.

"I think you broke my wrist," Watney whined. Beck looked over the back of the arm chair in concern, until he saw Mark's fingers wiggling without eliciting a cry of pain from their owner.

"You're fine. It's not from Beth anyway."

"Oh," Mark sat up quickly, magically healed. "What's it about?"

Beck unlocked his phone and quickly scanned the email. "I have to report to HR at four," he reported with a scowl.

"It's probably just your background check," Watney replied, waving dismissively at the implication.

"I already had one of those."

"Then this is the one where they dig up the super deep dirt from your teenage years that they think will affect how you'll do as an astronaut."

"I don't have any 'super deep dirt' from my teenage years," Beck fired back, using air quotes for emphasis.

Watney dropped his chin on the armrest and looked inquisitively at Beck. " _Nothing_?"

Beck tipped his head back and forth as he thought about it. "Well, I guess there might be _one_ thing…" He waited for Mark's eyebrows to rise eagerly before shaking his head. "Nah, that wouldn't do it."

"Well there has to be something, Dr. Goody Two-Shoes, otherwise they wouldn't have called you back."

Not that he would admit it to Watney but Beck was now starting to feel a tiny bit of concern. "Who else got called back?"

"Me, Lewis, Kipner, Rivera, Arnold."

Beck's heart sank even further. Watney and Lewis were serious competition but, thankfully, not in his field. Arnold was one of the other flight surgeons being considered and, in Beck's opinion, his best competition for the position. But Kipner and Rivera were another breed indeed. Both were headstrong, outspoken individuals who easily fulfilled the brawn qualifications but were slightly left lacking in the brains. If he was in the same boat as them, it couldn't be good.

"Relax, Beck," Watney said, all humor gone from his expression. "They're probably just going to ask you about the dishwashing job you had when you were fifteen that you didn't put on your resume because it's absolutely not applicable to anything you've been doing since."

"That flags it?"

Watney shrugged. "Did for Lewis. Except hers was a waitressing job at a mom-and-pop burger joint."

Beck reached over the chair and punched Watney in the shoulder. Given his position, it couldn't have been more than a glancing blow but Mark fell flat to the ground, clutching at his shoulder like he'd been shot. "You should have mentioned that earlier!" Chris continued, ignoring Mark's antics.

"I would have, if I knew you were going to take this so seriously. You need to lighten up man."

Before Beck could reply, his phone chirped again, sounding the ten minute notification for his meeting with Human Resources.

"I have to go," he announced as he stood up. He considered leaving Watney splayed dramatically over the floor as if he'd been flattened with a stream roller but, in the end, his better judgement won out, and he leaned over and extended his hand.

Watney eagerly grabbed at it and used it to haul himself into the newly vacated armchair. "Thanks man!"

Beck just nodded, then headed off to the conference room specified in the email.

* * *

"Dr. Beck!" Alicia Robinson, director of Human Resources, exclaimed as soon as he walked in. A strong burly man in a black v-neck and jeans sat on her right while Mitch Henderson's face was projected on the bank of monitors to her left. Beck saw the unhappy expression on Mitch's face and his heart again sank into his stomach as he began fearing for the worst.

"Please take a seat," Robinson continued, motioning to the many seats around the large table.

Beck scanned the room but decided on the seat closest to the door, in case he was indeed being dropped from the program. "Can I ask what this is about?" he questioned, his voice cracking ever-so-slightly in the middle of his query.

"We just have a few questions for you," Robinson said nonchalantly, shuffling the files and folders in front of her. "Dotting 'i's and crossing 't's really."

"It's ridiculous, that's what this is," Mitch spoke up and some of the unease drained out of Beck's posture as he realized Mitch was on his side for whatever this is. Not that would do a lot if he was being let go but he supposed it could be a small comfort.

To his surprise, Robinson's expression darkened at Henderson's intrusion, giving Beck the impression they'd been through this before. "It's procedure, Mitch," she said in a measured tone.

"What is procedure?" Chris questioned again.

Robinson shifted again so she was facing him but didn't verbally respond for a long, drawn out moment. Just when Beck thought he was going to have to repeat the question, the director of HR opened the top folder and slid a page toward him. "Do you recognize that man?"

Beck picked up the glossy 8x10 photo depicting a man dressed in dark combat gear, a mask covering the bottom half of his face, an assault rifle raised in the air. "It's Bucky Barnes," he replied, sending the page flying down the table again.

He waited for a second question, relevant to him or his position on the Ares 3 but Robinson just raised her eyebrows expectantly, as if waiting for him to continue.

"Um, he's Captain America's best friend..." he began slowly, racking his brain for superhero trivia from his childhood, "...was presumed dead during the war but turned up in the future as the Winter Soldier. He turned Avenger after the Accords incident and served as Captain America for a few years before handing the shield to Sam Wilson." Finished, he trailed off but Robinson kept staring at him, obviously waiting him for him to say something specific. "I'm sorry, I'm not sure what you're looking for exactly," he finally admitted.

Robinson shook her head, her lips pursed in disappointment. "Dr. Beck, we were wondering if there was something you needed to tell us before we make the final selections next week."

Chris looked at her, his brows furrowing as he again considered what could have prompted this meeting. "No."

"Is that a question or a statement?"

"No," he stated emphatically, receiving a nod of approval from Mitch onscreen.

She sighed deeply then slid the photograph back into its folder with the pad of one manicured finger. "Dr. Beck, we've called you here today because you bear an unmistakable resemblance to the man in that photograph, the former Winter Soldier." She pulled out a second photograph, yellow with age, of Bucky Barnes from the 1940s and held it up for him to see.

Beck's jaw dropped. "You're not serious."

"Unfortunately they are," Henderson said, leaning back in his chair and interlacing his hands above his head.

"I am not the Winter Soldier!" Beck was quick to exclaim, turning his attention back to Robinson.

"Then you won't mind if we scan your left arm." Robinson motioned to the previously silent third man, who now stood and walked over to Beck, metal detecting wand raised.

"I kinda do."

"Just let them do it, Chris," Henderson said with a deep sigh of exasperation. "So we'll be done with this whole mess."

In lieu of responding, Beck held his left arm at a ninety-degree angle from his body. The other man walked slowly over, clicked on the device then ran the scanner from the crook of Beck's neck, down the upper half of his arm, around his hand and back to his armpit.

"See?" Beck said to Robinson when there wasn't a single beep. "Can I go now?"

Robinson scribbled something on a pad of paper then looked up at Beck. "Not quite yet. We need a blood sample—"

"You have plenty of my blood on file," Chris countered.

Robinson's jaw worked noticeably, almost in frustration, but her voice was level when she continued, "If you would let me finished, Doctor. We need a sample from your left arm."

Chris stared at her incredulously. "The veins are better in my right arm," he said slowly, not breaking eye contact with Robinson. "All this time, I've been trying to make it easier for your doctors by insisting they draw from that one."

"Dr. Beck, unfortunately, we cannot proceed with your candidacy until we are sure you are not James Buchanan Barnes, especially since a metal arm is likely to not work in space."

Chris looked around the room again, his eyes landing on Mitch, who just threw his hands into the air resignedly. As much as he knew he should probably just stay quiet and allow the whole situation to unfold, it was too ludicrous to continue without some sort of protest, especially since his candidacy for the Ares 3 was riding on its outcome. "This is ridiculous," he finally spoke up, shaking his head in disbelief. "I am not some supersoldier from the 40s, I do not have a metal arm, and I was never Captain America. Besides, isn't he like fifty now biologically?"

"The serum slows aging. Look at Steve Rogers," Robinson responded so quickly it seemed the line must have been practiced.

It was true that Captain America looked barely any older than he had when he'd come out of the ice in 2011. There were more prominent lines around his eyes, hair thinning ever so slightly (more visible when he cut his hair shorter to keep up with modern day fashion), skin just not as firm as it once was. It wasn't anything too serious and probably nothing an average person would have noticed but Chris, who had always prided himself on his observation skills, had picked on them almost instantly.

"Bucky Barnes' serum isn't as—" he began to argue but then, as he looked around the room and saw only firm faces from those in it, decided against it. He held out his left arm. "Let's just get this over with."

"Thank you. If you would please, doctor," she motioned toward the silent man who exchanged the metal detecting wand for a blood draw kit.

The man prepped Chris' arm, bathing the crook of his elbow in betadine for thirty seconds and allowing it to dry, before securing a tourniquet around his bicep. After Chris squeezed a bit of PVC pipe three times, the entire room fell silent while the unnamed doctor slid the needle toward Beck's arm.

As soon as the needle bit into Chris' skin, the other man cursed.

"What happened?" Robinson demanded, standing up slightly to better see what had happened.

"He missed," Beck stated, watching blood well in his elbow. "I told you my veins aren't as good in that arm," he repeated pedantically, shooting Robinson a sideways glance. She did not look impressed.

"Isn't it enough that I'm bleeding from my left arm?" Beck said as the doctor lined up to insert the needle again.

"Apparently not," Henderson said when Robinson refused to answer. "For the record, I'm sorry they're putting you through this," he continued, scrubbing at his forehead.

"It's okay," Beck said levelly. "Good to get it out of the way now."

He winced slightly as the doctor drove the needle into his skin with more force than probably necessary. Despite his crude methodology, he'd managed to find Beck's vein and blood began flowing into the connected vial at a sluggish pace.

"Yes it is," Henderson stated, his wide grin shining into his tone. Bolstered by his boss' reaction, Chris couldn't help turning and raising his eyebrows at Robinson in an 'I told you so' expression.

To her credit, she just nodded before sitting back down and scrawling notes on a legal pad.

Beck turned back to the doctor who was swapping vials.

"How much do you need exactly?"

"Three vials," the man said, speaking with a thick accent for the first time.

"For what?"

"Additional testing."

That explained absolutely nothing but Beck knew he wasn't going to get a better answer even if he asked again. So he just sat in silence while the doctor drew the last vial, then slid out the needle and swapped it for a thick piece of gauze.

"Hold your hand—"

"I know," Beck snapped, raising his arm above his head and applying pressure with his other hand. After the doctor had labelled the vials and slid them into a carrier, he brought out the sticky blue tape and secured the gauze to Beck's elbow.

When he was done, Mitch cleared his throat and turned his gaze to Robinson. "Anything else Alicia?"

"No," she said, a fake smile on her face. "He's free to go."

Beck just nodded, not able to find it within himself to thank her, then excused himself from the room.

He'd walked less than fifty feet when someone from behind him asked, "How did it go?"

Beck jumped slightly, his heart pounding in his chest as his fight-or-flight reflex kicked in. He forced himself to relax, at which point he recognized the voice as Watney's. "The hell is wrong with you!" Beck spat, looking over to see his friend leaning against the wall and smiling widely.

Watney's eyebrows disappeared into his hairline. "What did they do to you in there, my mild-mannered friend?"

"Nothing," Beck scowled, not wanting give credence to the ridiculousness of the entire situation. He straightened up and walked away, hoping Watney would get the hint to drop it.

"It's not 'nothing'. Look at you," Mark said, hurrying after Chris. "What did they want?" Then he paused. "You weren't…" he trailed off with a shrug, "were you?"

"No, I was not eliminated from the program," Beck stopped so quickly Mark actually ran into him. As much as he wanted to keep this quiet, the situation was begging to be shared, so he and someone else could have a good laugh about how insane the whole thing was. Ignoring the warnings his brain was sending him, Beck turned around, his expression stern. "If I tell you, you can't tell anyone else."

"Cross my heart," Mark said, making the requisite motion across his chest.

"They thought I was Bucky Barnes," Beck said in a hushed tone.

Though Mark didn't say anything, Chris watched him struggle to keep the smile off his face and fight to keep his shoulders from shaking with suppressed laughter.

"I'm glad you think it's funny. I almost got kicked out because of it." Beck spun on his heel and kept walking down the hallway.

"They didn't really think _you_ of all people were a genetically modified, 112-year old supersoldier, did they?" Mark asked, jogging to catch up to Beck.

"Henderson was furious they even had to ask."

Watney smiled. "I knew I liked that guy." Then, without warning, he broke into a full sprint. "Wait until I tell Martinez!"

"Watney, you bastard, you promised!" Chris took off after him, valiantly hoping he could somehow take Mark down before he told Martinez, who would then tell the rest of the Ares 3 hopefuls. He didn't need anything else separating him from Arnold when NASA made their final decisions and having some of the crew being afraid he was a former Hydra assassin was not going to count in his favor.

"My fingers were crossed," Mark had the gall to shout, holding his intertwined carpals above his head as proof.

"I swear to you Mark! One word to Martinez and I will leave your lying ass on Mars."

"You wouldn't be able to, Dr. I-Have-To-Save-Everyone. I saw you in your triage tests."

"Watch me," Beck gritted his teeth and poured on the speed, tackling Watney before he could knock on Martinez' door.

Mark must have gotten off one rap though for, second later, Rick opened the door, his gaze immediately dropping to stare at the two astronaut hopefuls wrestling at his feet.

"What did I miss?" he deadpanned.

"Beck—"

Chris drove his elbow into Mark's stomach, momentarily silencing him.

"NASA Retreat 2028," he hissed in Watney's direction.

The botanist's eyes widened, his eyebrows disappearing into his hairline. "You wouldn't dare."

"Try me."

"Someone want to fill in the odd guy out?" Martinez asked, squatting down beside the two of them.

"Nothing," Watney was quick to say. "Just wanted to see how Beck's tackle was after all these years."

"You played?" Rick asked Beck who disentangled himself from Watney then pushed his hair out of his face.

"College."

Martinez was staring wide-eyed at Beck as if seeing him in a whole new light. "Me too. What position?"

"Quarterback."

"Wide receiver," Martinez nodded approvingly then suggested, "We should get a team together and scrimmage sometime."

Beck nodded enthusiastically. His job didn't allow him a lot of consistent free time in which to schedule a game with friends and he'd come to discover that he missed it. "That'd be awesome."

Rick turned back to Watney who was still lying spread-eagle on the ground. "You can be our agility dummy."

Before Mark could fire back a snappy reply, his and Beck's phones beeped, Martinez's echoing from inside his room. "Time for weights," Mark said, burying his head in the carpet.

"Yes, but then we have the whole weekend off," Martinez said, a wide grin on his face.

"You have plans?" Beck asked as he hauled himself to his feet.

"Going home to see the family. Won't be able to go for another two months after this."

"Sounds like a blast," Watney rose to his feet, cradling his ribs. "That's some tackle, man," he told Beck. "Think it'll get me out of the Circle of Pain?"

"Not likely."

"Ah well, a man can hope."

By this time, other doors were opening as the final few recruits began walking toward the weight room en masse. Beck, Martinez and Watney easily slid into the group, Beck ending up next to the blond computer tech who joined them from the opposite direction.

"You donate blood today?" Johanssen immediately asked, staring pointedly at blue wrapping around Beck's elbow.

"Something like that."

Suddenly, someone crashed into his shoulder, pushing him into Johanssen. "I'm so sorry!" he apologized, hearing Watney and Martinez snickering in the background.

"Don't worry about it," she replied, a wicked grin on her face. She waited until they had turned the corner to step on the back of Mark's shoe, flat-tiring him. Because Watney was in the habit of keeping his shoes loosely tied so he could slide easily in and out of them without actually having to expend the effort to untie the laces, his foot did exactly that and he flew forward, catching himself on Rivera's back.

Beck felt a swell of admiration rise in his chest as Beth quickly continued forward, head held high as if nothing had happened.

As Mark desperately tried to apologize to the beefy Rivera, Martinez turned to Beck and let out a low whistle. "You got it bad for her already, don't you."

It took everything he had to school his face into a neural expression but Beck somehow managed before turned to Martinez and, with a straight face, said, "What are you talking about? That's against regulations."

Then he picked up the pace and hurried into the gym before he could hear Martinez's answer.

* * *

Some time after the Ares 3 returned to Earth with Mark Watney, Bucky Barnes was walking out of the grocery store, hands full of plastic bag handles. He felt something tap his flesh shoulder and spun around to see a group of kids standing behind him, grinning widely.

"Excuse me," the oldest one said. "You're Chris Beck right? The astronaut? Could we get a picture?"

"Sorry kid. Not Chris Beck," Bucky replied, shooting the group his most winning smile and hoping that was the end of it.

Then one of the little girls stepped forward and muttered in a tone filled with adoration, "No way. That's Bucky Barnes!"

"Bucky Barnes!" the group began to jump up and down while excitedly chattering with each other. "Wow, this is Bucky Barnes! We've met Bucky Barnes! Can we get a picture?"

Before Bucky could agree, they had mobbed around him and someone clicked off a shot.

"We won't keep you, Mr. Barnes, but thank you!" they cried, dancing off before Bucky was done blinking camera flashes from his eyes.

As he quickly hurried away before anyone else could get a similar idea, Bucky smiled to himself. It'd been a long time since he'd stepped out of the public eye but it still warmed his heart to know that, after everything he'd done under Hydra's thumb, that people had forgiven him and accepted him as an Avenger, later as Captain America, and now as a retired civilian who mostly kept to himself, enjoying everything the future had to offer.

* * *

 **The phone call from HR re: a restaurant job is actually a true story. I left it off my resume because it's not relevant to what I do now but HR called to clarify when they found it in my old W2s. Luckily, I had an easier time than Beck getting that all straightened out.**

 **Thanks for reading!**


	13. Chapter 13: Sherlock Holmes

**For Marvelgeek42. Thank you for being patient.**

* * *

 _2016_

Steve Rogers walked into the common room at the New Avengers Facility to find Wanda Maximoff curled up on the couch, snuffling miserably into a wad of Kleenex. She tried to wave him off but, undeterred, he pushed aside a tented dog-eared novel, and sat on the coffee table in front of her.

"How are you feeling?" he asked, resting the back of his hand against her forehead.

"About the same," Wanda croaked and immediately winced.

"Sore throat?"

She just nodded.

"When was the last time you took any medicine?"

Wanda squinted blearily at the clock above the 4k television then held up six fingers.

"It's time for more," Steve said as he stood and extended his hand. Grumbling under her breath, Wanda took his hand then hauled herself to her feet. Steve immediately stood next to her and wrapped an arm around her shoulders for additional support. "To the kitchen we go."

Tony was standing next to the coffee maker, scowling into the plastic filter. He looked up when Steve and Wanda entered. "How ya feeling kiddo?" he asked as he beat the filter against the side of the trash can to empty it.

"How did Clint say it? 'Like death warmed over'," she said, in a perfect imitation of Barton's slight drawl. She again winced as the sound grated against her sore throat and Tony immediately held out a cup of coffee.

Wanda didn't step closer but instead motioned for him to put it on the counter then to back up. After exchanging looks with Steve, Tony did as she asked. It was only when he was a good distance away that Wanda snagged the coffee and pulled it back to her side of the room.

"I don't want to get you sick," she said, her voice slightly stronger after a few long drinks of the warm liquid. Perhaps unnecessarily, she pointed to her sternum, in an equivalent spot to where the reactor had been.

Tony was touched by her gesture but shook off her concern. "I'll be fine Wanda."

"I won't risk it," she replied, pushing herself to the opposite counter.

Steve finished rummaging in the cabinet above the stove and walked back to Wanda with a handful of pills. She barely looked at them before chasing them down with a giant gulp of coffee.

"Did you eat breakfast?" he then asked and, when she shook her head, set about pulling out a pan and the non-stick spray. "How about you, Tony?"

"You know I'm not a big breakfast guy—"

"Eggs for three coming up," Steve declared, pointing at an empty barstool. Tony sighed but, instead of sitting, walked over to the fridge and retrieved the eggs, peppers and shredded cheese.

He heard Wanda inhale sharply and looked over his shoulder to find her face scrunched up, in anticipation of a sneeze. She quickly ducked her head into her shoulder while her other hand scrabbled for the nearby tissue box.

Tony's hands were full of breakfast supplies but he managed to bump the tissue box with his elbow as he passed, knocking it closer to Wanda. He had only taken one more step when two things happened at once: Wanda sneezed and a bolt of red energy shot from her outstretched hand—the hand that was pointed directly at Tony.

In the split second he realized what was about to happen, Tony tried to move out of the way but it was too late; the bolt struck him mid-chest and his vision was lost in a wave of red.

* * *

There was a brief sensation of falling before he snapped back to complete awareness. The first thing he registered was that it was loud and it took another moment for his ears to adjust to the individual sounds: first the crashing, then the shouting, and finally… _neighing?_

Tony opened his eyes to find himself standing in an alley of some sort. People dressed grandly in elaborate dresses and suits were pushing past him and a boy on the corner, in a pageboy cap and dirty slacks, was holding a paper high in the air and calling out the headlines.

Tony thought these people might have been outliers—some sort of strangely dressed group—until more and more people passed, wearing the same patterns of inflexibility, discomfort and excessive starch.

Before Tony could give that much more thought, he heard a whinny and spun around to find a horse-drawn cart bearing down on him. He dove out of the way, landing in a pile of things he didn't care to identify. It was then, as he looked down at himself to catalogue any possible injuries, that he realized he was dressed in a starched white shirt and black pants that were stiff, unyielding, and on par with all the other outfits he'd seen so far.

He wiped his hands on his pants, choosing not to pay attention to what exactly the gunk was, then walked up to the first woman he saw.

"Where are we?" he demanded.

If the woman found the question odd, she didn't show it. "London of course!" she replied, before swinging the basket she was carrying in a large circle and bounding off.

Somehow, at the back of Tony's mind, he knew he was in the middle of Wanda's spell but that didn't make his current situation any less concerning. He knew she hadn't meant to hex him but, with her illness, he had no idea how long it would take her to release him. So he could either stay in one spot until he snapped back to 2017…or he could explore this dreamscape a little.

It wasn't really a choice.

Tony took another critical look at his clothing, placing it. at his best guess, in the late 1800s. After taking a moment to mentally review everything he knew about the era, he straightened his shirt then exited the alley.

He shied close to a nearby building and took a moment to drink in the sights: the oddly dressed people, the tall buildings with no real color—unlike the grafittied and brightly colored eyesores of the modern world—and the horse-drawn carriages. Then, he spotted a sign on the side of the closest building reading _Baker Street NW_.

"No way," he breathed, instantly recognizing the address. Without a second's hesitation, he stepped out in front of the next passerby and asked directions to 221B.

Moments later, he was standing in front of the doorway under the overhanging light, his heart beating excitedly against his chest. Again, he reminded himself that this was all a delusion. But still…if the background of the city was this detailed, he couldn't wait to see what Sherlock Holmes would be like.

He rapped on the door and, after a moment, an elderly man with mutton chop sideburns answered. He instantly did a double take and stepped out of the doorway. "Have you lost your key again, Mr. Holmes?"

"Holmes?" Tony repeated, looking down at himself.

"Oh dear," the other man said, making a clucking sound with his tongue. "In case you've forgotten," he continued, speaking slowly and precisely as one would do to a child, "your bedroom is upstairs, just left of the stairwell."

"My bedroom?"

The elderly man's face contorted then he twisted from the waist and hollered, "Mrs. Hudson!"

A split second later, the door on the second floor opened and a man, dressed in a white shirt and waistcoat, stepped out. "Can we keep it down?" he demanded as he leaned over the rail.

Tony's breath caught in his throat when he recognized the face staring back at him: it was his own, except with longer hair and a less weathered face.

The butler's gaze flitted between the two before his eyes rolled back into his head and he passed out. Tony tried to catch him but, as he was still on the stoop, he was too far away. Thankfully, the older man's head connected with a pile of clothing, instead of the wooden floor, but he still didn't get up.

As the shock of seeing someone else yet again wearing his face wore off, Tony crouched down beside the elderly man and took his pulse. While he was counting beats, he vaguely heard someone taking the stairs with a measured and unhurried gait.

Then he heard a revolver being cocked and slowly raised his hands.

"Explain yourself," his doppelganger, who must be the real Holmes, demanded.

 _It's just an illusion_. _He can't hurt you,_ Tony reminded himself but, before he opened his mouth to speak, Holmes fired, sending the bullet whistling past Tony's ear and the inventor scrambling backwards.

"Explain!" Homes repeated as he cocked the pistol again.

"I'm from the future!" Tony blurted out while scanning the room for potential weapons….preferably a shield of some sort.

His words seemed to appease the detective for Holmes slowly lowered the gun. "Tell me more."

By the time Tony had recounted the short version of how he'd ended up here (which to him was weird, because _he_ knew how he'd ended up here and this was technically _his_ illusion, just brought on by Wanda, so he was really explaining it to himself), the butler, Mr. Brunton, had awakened and had been sent to his quarters under Mrs. Hudson's care.

Holmes had taken a seat on the bench in the entryway and was rubbing at his chin in contemplation. "So your friend can manipulate consciousness and, in her ill state, she accidentally…what did you call it?"

"Hexed me."

Holmes nodded in a sweeping motion that engaged every muscle of his neck. "Fascinating….and the fact that we share the same resemblance?"

Tony shrugged. "I'm not sure."

"Intriguing," Holmes mumbled as he scratched the back of his neck. "And how do you end this hex?"

"I honestly have no idea."

Without warning, Holmes sprang to his feet, a smile dancing wildly over his face. "This will do splendidly. I have a case with which you shall help."

"But I—"

"Nonsense! It will pass the time until your hex has ended!"

He didn't wait for Tony to answer before sweeping upstairs, his cape billowing behind him. Once he got to the balcony, he leaned dangerously far over it and shouted, "Come come! We have much to discuss."

Tony sat in the foyer for another moment, trying vainly to come up with another plan, but eventually sighed and headed up the stairs behind Holmes.

* * *

Tony's outfit had been deemed appropriate by the detective but his goatee had been met with much scrutiny. The inventor spared a second to wonder why he had period-inappropriate facial hair while the rest of his outfit had been changed, before he'd metaphorically bit the bullet and shaved, reminding himself with every pull of the razor that this was in only an illusion and his 2017 self would be unaffected. "For the sake of the case", he even allowed Holmes to fluff his hair into an uncombed style that reminded Tony of his worst bedhead. As Holmes finished though, Tony caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror and was borderline unsettled by how similar he and Holmes now looked. But, he took a deep breath and let it out slowly, reminding himself yet again that this was all just a manipulation of reality.

Even so, his willingness to help Holmes evaporated the moment he saw the absolutely massive man walk in front of the window of the house they were surveilling. He was in his thirties and prematurely balding but was over six feet tall and had a build as muscular as Steve's. While Tony had had self-defense and other forms of fighting training per his position on the Avengers, he wasn't sure he could take the man, should worse come to worse. "I'm not sure this is a good idea," he stated, turning in the carriage seat to face Holmes.

"Poppycock!" the detective exclaimed as he pulled an absolutely ridiculous mask over his face. "You shall distract Mr. Gibson while I search his place for clues."

"Or we could wait until he leaves?"

Holmes shook his head. "When he leaves, we will have no idea when he will return. When he is talking to you, I shall know where he is at and can search the house free of concern."

Tony stared at Holmes and quickly realized this wasn't an argument he was going to win. "Now I know how Pepper feels," he muttered as he climbed out of the carriage and made his way to the front of the house. Once again on the stoop, but with much less excitement than he'd been four hours ago, Tony took a deep breath than knocked twice.

It took Mr. Gibson less than thirty seconds to open it, exactly three seconds for his eyebrows to furrow and his face to turn tomato-red, and two seconds for him to throw a punch directly at Tony's face.

In an eerie sense of déjà vu, Tony felt himself try to duck, to pull out of the way, but he was too slow. The punch smashed into his jaw, whipping his head around.

"What gives you the right to knock on my door?" the man growled, ending the question in a derogatory comment about Tony's parentage.

Tony stumbled backward, holding his aching jaw.

"My name is—"

"I know who you are, Holmes!" he bellowed, swinging a haymaker at Tony. This time, the inventor dropped into a crouch and the punch sailed widely over his head.

"I told you—" swing and a miss, "—that you'd never—" swing and corresponding duck, "—be welcome here—" swing and a sidestep, "again!" This time, before he could swing, Tony lashed out, digging his fingertip into the space just to the right of the hollow of Gibson's collarbone. The man bent in half, screaming in pain.

Out of the corner of his eye, Tony saw Holmes sneak by them and make his way into the house. "I'm coming for you next," Tony growled at the detective, angry with how he'd been set-up. Holmes ignored him and danced into the house, waving over his shoulder.

Without warning, Gibson straightened up and swung a haymaker again. Tony ducked cleanly and was on his way to straightening up when the meaty arm changed directions.

The man's elbow smashed into Tony's temple and he lost consciousness before he hit the ground.

* * *

Tony's eyes snapped open and he shot upright, his forehead connecting with something hard and unyielding.

A man cursed but Tony didn't pay attention, his hands rising for a presumed fight.

"Tony!" a heavily-accented voice called and instantly a soft force was on either side of his face, gently turning his head until he saw Wanda on the far side of the room, looking extremely worried.

 _So he was back in present day,_ Tony deduced as he recognized his kitchen. He spared a glance toward the stove, which showed a time only a few moments after he'd poured his first cup of coffee, and let out a sigh of relief.

"Are you alright?" Wanda demanded, her voice unusually high.

Before Tony could answer, there was a pained exhale from his left and he looked over to see Steve kneeling beside him, head turned away from the inventor, gasping for breath.

But before Tony could tend to _that_ , Wanda began repeating, "I'm so sorry Tony. I didn't mean to; are you alright?" on a loop.

Knowing Steve would have him deal with Wanda first, the inventor looked down at himself, shifted his arms and legs to test his awareness, then slowly sat up. "I'm fine. You?" he asked, staring at Wanda.

She nodded, biting down hard on her bottom lip to cut off her mantra. Tony did a quick visual assessment to confirm then turned his attention back to Steve.

"Rogers, you with us?" Tony asked, poking the soldier in the shoulder.

"Yup," Steve replied, his voice muffled, and Tony's heart sank as he put two and two together.

"What's wrong with your face?" he demanded as he leaned to his left but Steve just turned his head further away.

"I'm fine," he repeated again but Tony was less than convinced.

"FRIDAY?"

"Don't, FRIDAY!" Steve sputtered but the AI was already in the process of replying, "I believe you broke his nose, sir."

Tony's breath caught in his throat and he grabbed Steve's shoulder. "Let me see."

"Only if…you're not going to freak out…It was an accident."

"I won't freak out," Tony retorted but he made an 'X' over his heart for good measure. "I just need to see how bad it is."

"I'm holding you to that," Steve said hesitantly but he did turn back around, allowing Tony to see his nose, which was badly broken and sitting at an unnatural angle just shy of center. The swelling already started, and his hand was pressed against it, trying to stem the bleeding. Suddenly, a box of tissues appeared on a red cloud and Steve grabbed a handful, shoving them against his face. "I'll be fine," he mumbled thickly.

"FRIDAY, call Bruce," Tony said. "We need someone to set Steve's nose."

He recoiled as someone touched his forehead, belatedly realizing it was Steve with his non-bloodied hand. "And check Tony for concussion," the soldier added.

As if on cue, a bag of ice floated into Tony's field of vision.

"Thanks Wanda," the inventor said as he held it against his forehead. He then turned to look to see her huddled in the corner, silent tears streaming down her face, a complete change from the decently composed individual he'd left two minutes ago. "It's alright kid," he promised, slowly rising to his feet. "I'm fine, Steve's fine..ish, we're all fine."

"I didn't mean to hurt you," she said, shying further away from Tony, who keep walking closer until he was within arm's reach. At that point, he reached out and carefully wrapped her in a hug.

"It's okay," he said and she melted into his embrace, sobbing into his neck.

"I'm so sorry," she cried, "So, so sorry."

"It's okay Wanda. It was a happy trip," he said, stroking her hair with the hand that wasn't wrapped around Wanda's back and simultaneously holding ice against his forehead. "I met Sherlock Holmes," he added with a laugh. "And he looked just like me."

Wanda pulled away in surprise. "You what?"

"You sent me back to late 1800s London and I met Sherlock Holmes. I didn't realize you were picturing me when you read those books," he teased.

"I'm not," she said, wiping away her tears. "My Holmes is taller than you, with a longer face. Dark, curly hair, but no beard. Eyes that change from blue to green depending on the light. Ruggedly handsome with cheekbones—"

Tony wrapped his right arm around his face, blocking out the rest of her description with his shoulder and hand. "That's enough! I don't need to hear anymore."

Wanda's mouth instantly stopped moving and she magicked over the box of tissues for her own use.

While she blew her nose, Tony looked over his shoulder at Steve who was cautiously pulling the pass of tissues away from his face. "You doing alright there, Rogers?"

"I told you, I'm fine," Steve said, scowling as his nose began to bleed anew.

"Bruce is on his way, sir," FRIDAY intoned before Tony could beg to differ. "ETA forty-one minutes."

"Good. Now, onto the important stuff," he turned back to Steve and Wanda, "did any of the breakfast stuff survive?"

Despite his broken nose, Steve snorted, then doubled over sharply swearing under his breath. Tony reached out for him but Steve'd already straightened up, his face an alarming shade of white. "Note to self: don't do that again."

Tony barely resisted punching Steve in the arm, knowing he'd hurt his hand more than the super-soldier.

"The eggs shattered when they were dropped," FRIDAY thankfully replied; it didn't escape anyone's notice that she left out who had done the dropping and why.

"Then ordering in it is!" Tony declared, clapping his hands above his shoulder twice in rapid succession. "The usual, dear FRIDAY!"

Steve smiled lopsidedly but Wanda shook her head and took a step back. "I think I better go back to my room," she said, heading for the door. "Before it happens again."

Tony reached out but Steve was faster; in two large steps, he'd surpassed Wanda and planted himself in the doorway, crossing his arms over his chest to show he wasn't going to forcibly detain her. Still he was imposing enough to get her to stop. "Take it from someone who's been through something like this," he began, "isolation's not what you need right now. You need to be around people, even if you don't engage very much."

"We trust you Wanda," Tony chimed in. "I know it was an accident."

The Sokovian looked less than convinced but she allowed herself to be led back into the common room. As she dropped onto the couch, Tony saw the _Hound of Baskervilles_ book on the coffee table and suddenly understood why he'd been transported to that place and time.

"You know, Sherlock Holmes was made into a television show," he offered as he sat down beside her, Steve on the reclining chair a few feet away. "It's on NetFilms if you wanted to try it."

She still looked uneasy but she nodded and blew her nose. "Sure."

By the time Bruce arrived (ten minutes earlier than FRIDAY had predicted), all three were still in the living room engrossed in the television show. After Bruce checked over Steve and Wanda and declared them healing and gave Tony a clean bill of health, the inventor held out a to-go container. "Egg white omelet. Extra peppers."

Bruce accepted the container then took a seat beside Tony as Holmes made his big reveal.

"I knew it!" Wanda shouted. As all eyes turned to her, she shifted awkwardly on the couch and said, in a much more casual tone, "I don't suppose we could watch another?"

Tony just grinned and queued up the next episode, finally, after all these years, having found someone who shared his love of the fictional detective.

* * *

 **Thanks for reading!**


	14. Chapter 14: Push

**For the six "anonymous" reviewers who requested _Push_. Hope you enjoy!**

 **Warning: very mild, non-graphic descriptions of an injury prevail. Nothing too serious but read with discretion if that bothers you.**

* * *

Pain knifed through Nick Gant's side, thrusting him unceremoniously into consciousness. He instinctively lurched forward, ready to defend himself, but had moved a scarce few inches before something bit into his wrists, his ribs, jerking him back.

With great effort, he forced his eyes open and found himself secured to a metal chair by thick metal cuffs around his wrists and corresponding bands around his torso, hips, quads, and ankles. Something beige was wrapped around his abdomen, pressing something white against his skin. He shifted his hip experimentally and had to bite back a scream as white-hot pain lanced up his side.

 _Some sort of wound then._

As his chest ceased its painful heaving, he screwed his eyes closed and concentrated on the cuffs, trying to open them. Unfortunately, they barely shifted a centimeter.

 _The Division!_

Panic swelled in his chest but Nick fought it back. If he wanted to get out of here alive, he needed to stay calm until whatever they'd given him to dampen his powers wore off.

He heard a key scratching in a lock and dropped his head against his chest, pretending to still be unconscious.

"I know you're awake," a gravelly voice stated as soon as the door had swung open.

Nick slowly looked up to find an elderly man with short white hair and unusually green eyes staring at him in a way that rolled Nick's stomach. The Mover immediately steeled his expression and fixed the man with as deadly a glare as he could manage. "What do you want...with me?" he ground out.

"What does anyone want with you, _Captain_?" The man put great emphasis on the last word then grinned almost ferally.

Nick blinked in confusion. "'Cuse you?"

The man's grin widened before he walked over to a table and began rearranging its contents. "I won't fall for those games today, Captain."

 _There it was again. Was it possible they weren't really after him?_

"I'm not...a Captain."

"Sure you're not, _Steve._ "

Suddenly everything clicked.

"I'm not...him," Nick repeated, this time slightly more desperate, as any non-enhanced person would in his current situation. "My name's Nick!"

The man's brows furrowed and he took a step closer, carefully examining Nick while he rubbed at his goatee. He muttered something Nick's ringing ears didn't quite catch then strode away. The second he was out of the room, Nick tried again to open the cuffs but the harder he concentrated, the more the pain flared in his side, stealing his focus.

As black spots flashed at the corner of his vision, the door swung open again and the older man marched back in, dragging a younger man by the ear. "You said this was Captain America!"

"It is!" the younger one cried, wretching his ear free. "Looks just like him."

"Do...not," Nick spat out.

"I'll prove it!" The younger man grabbed a knife off the table and, before anyone could protest, he'd dragged it along the back of Nick's hand.

The new injury was too much for Nick's body to handle and he felt himself slipping, only barely able to hear the elderly man shout something about how the cut wasn't closing.

Then there was a loud boom and something smacked Nick in the forehead, driving him firmly back into unconsciousness.

* * *

 _Beep_.

Hospital.

 _Beep._

Division.

Nick's eyes snapped open and he threw himself forward, arms and legs swinging.

"Slow down there tiger," a familiar voice said as a warm object was pressed against his shoulder.

Nick continued to struggle but didn't seem to be actually moving. Never one to give up, he kept attempting to fight his way out of the bed, until he was aware enough to realize he'd moved scarcely at all—his arms and legs were still under the white sheet covering him, which was barely rumpled.

With great effort, he looked up slowly to see...Tony Stark holding his shoulder?

"I'm dreaming," Nick stated, blinking hard a few times to clear his vision.

Mr. Stark cocked his head and smiled. "Must be a pretty great dream if I'm in it."

Nick continued to stare blankly at the inventor while his addled brain rushed to process what was happening. "How'd I get 'ere?" he finally managed to say.

"Long story short, some baddie thought you were Captain America and wanted to steal the Super Soldier Serum from your blood. He made the mistake of broadcasting his intention in public in front of a little boy named Evan, who forced his parents to take him to the police station, where I have my scanners listening in and, after I got a hold of Steve to confirm it wasn't him, I flew in to save you."

So many words, said so quickly. "Huh," Nick so eloquently responded.

"Them's the drugs," Tony said with a chuckle.

 _Drugs? For—_

As if on cue, the pain in his side ratched up to Herculean force. Nick curled forward, gasping for breath.

"Hey, hey, lean back." Stark must have pressed a button for something warm flowed into his arm.

But Nick couldn't make himself calm down; he was on too tight of a spiral to see reason.

He was in a hospital. Tony Stark's hospital. Drugs. It had to be the drugs. They were drugging him, causing these hallucinations.

He made a move for the IV but Tony's hand closed over his. "Leave that kid. You need it."

 _Like hell he did_ —but then the drugs won out and Nick's world faded to black.

* * *

The next time he awoke, he peeked through his eyelids to find a sandy-haired man was sitting in a chair, playing a...Game Boy? No other guards or armed personnel were in the room.

Nick quickly shut his eyes and pretended to still be asleep while he concentrated on the IV in his arm with all his strength. The drugs must still be flowing through his system since, while he was able to make the needle move, it veered off to the right, causing him to inhale sharply.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," the other man spoke up. A split second later, he snapped upright and jerked his head to the side, bringing his hands and the Game Boy along as well. "No!" he shouted seconds before a mournful sound came from the device. Scowling deeply, the man proceeded to throw the device Frisbee-style into a bag on the other side of the room with perfect accuracy.

Then, the sandy-haired man looked up and waved at Nick. "Hi, I'm Clint."

 _Clint, Tony…_

"'awk'ye."

"You got it," Clint replied, pointing finger guns at Nick.

 _This was all a dream._

"No, it's not," not-Hawkeye replied.

 _Crap, he'd said that out loud._

"You're in Stark Tower medbay. Best in New York."

 _New York? How had he gotten into the States?_

"Don't ask me. Tony found you in a warehouse in Detroit."

 _Detroit?_

"You know this conversation will go faster if you stop wasting your breath repeating everything I say."

"Not real," Nick rasped.

Not-Clint Barton cocked his head to the side, not unlike not-Tony Stark had earlier. "What makes you think this is a dream?" he asked, his tone level and calculating.

"You."

Not-Clint chuckled. "I'm really here, kid." Then he slowly reached out his hand. "Feel."

Anxious to prove his dream-self correct, Nick touched not-Clint's palm and flinched as he felt real warmth emanating from it.

"See? I'm real."

"So that means…" Before he could finish his thought, Nick's chest tightened like he still had the metal band around it and his breathing sped up against his will.

There was a hand on his face, forcing Nick to look directly at not-Clint. "You're safe with us. In the Tower. But you need to calm down or you're going to pass out."

"Uh huh," Nick managed before his eyes rolled back into his head and he was lost to the world.

* * *

The third time, a beautiful redhead was flipping through a _Guns & Ammo_ magazine at the foot of his bed.

"Natasha Romanoff?" he slurred.

She looked over the top of her magazine and nodded. "You gonna pass out on me again?"

"Didn't...pas'out."

"Clint would beg to differ." Then she put down the magazine and leaned slightly over his head. "How are you feeling?"

He lifted his shoulder in a shrug.

"That good, huh?"

Nick summoned all his strength and looked directly at Natasha. "Can you tell a lie?" he asked then immediately winced. He'd meant to broach the subject more casually but the drugs pumping through his IV apparently had other plans.

To her credit, the Widow just laughed. "I tell lies for a living."

"To me."

"I _can_."

"Need the truth."

Now it was Natasha's turn to shrug. "Depends on what you want to know."

"'is real?"

She nodded without hesitation. "You're in Stark Tower, today's date is August 5, 2017." She continued racking off a few more pertinent facts before looking over at Nick. "Should I continue?"

He shook his head, then shuddered as a cool blast of air conditioning hit his chest. "I hate hospitals," he mumbled. Then his eyes widened and he looked up in panic as he realized he'd said that out loud.

Natasha just nodded solemnly and pulled his covers up to his shoulders.

"As soon as your gunshot wound heals, you can go home."

Nick felt himself falling asleep with no discernible way of slowing it down. With everything he had left, he managed to repeat, "Gun...shot?" hoping he could get one final conversation out.

His body had other ideas however and Nick was out before he could process Natasha's response.

* * *

The fourth time, Nick was pretty convinced he wasn't in fact in some sort of elaborate hallucination. Each "dream" was too consistent, too detailed, too real even for a Pusher.

Which meant these people were ordinary and his injury, combined with whatever was flowing through his IV, was what was dampening his powers. The man sitting with him currently looked fairly unassuming, so Nick decided this would be the time to escape, before they sent in another Avenger. It crossed his mind that they genuinely wanted to help but the concept was so foreign to him that he'd shoved it away less than a second later.

All smiles, Nick greeted the man at his bedside, who introduced himself as Coulson, then put up with a thorough examination from his(?) doctor.

"That's healing nicely," the doctor stated as she taped the gauze back down.

"Does that mean I can get out of here?" Nick asked, knowing a valid discharge would be a lot less work for him.

But the brunette just shook her head. "Not for at least another few days," she replied then left the room after exchanging a few pleasantries with Coulson.

So it was going to be the hard way then.

Nick shifted positions in his bed, sliding his legs to the far edge, then cleared his throat. "Coulson, could you—"

"I am not going to get you a cup of water, or a sandwich from the cafeteria, or do anything that involves me leaving the room. I have strict orders to stay by your side until you're healed. Until that time, I _will_ allow you to watch the latest episode of _Supernanny_ with me. It's on Channel Eight." Coulson pointed to the remote on the inside of the bedrail then up at the overhanging television.

 _What?_

"Just let them help you, Nick."

"You know my name?"

Coulson nodded and adrenaline surged Nick's system.

If these people knew his name, they had to have looked him up, which meant there was a trail for Sniff to follow. He couldn't wait to put together a cohesive plan. He had to act now!

As quick as he could, Nick pulled out his IV and began stumbling toward the door. He'd made it two steps when something zapped against his back, sending fire shooting through his veins, and he knew no more.

* * *

The next time Nick woke, he was determined to ask what exactly Coulson had done to him but his brain short-circuited when he found his face staring back at him. Nick blinked and the other face came into greater focus, revealing blond hair, bright blue eyes, and a jawline that could cut diamonds.

"Captain America?" Nick breathed. He'd never thought he'd looked particularly like the superhero but, in that split second when he hadn't been fully awake, he could understand why his abductor had gotten the two of them confused. In hindsight, the kid needed stronger glasses.

Steve smiled warmly but, instead of speaking, he just nodded.

"Do you know who I am?" Nick continued.

Steve again nodded.

Time to go for broke. If he couldn't trust Captain America, he was in a pretty sorry state. "Do you know...what I do?"

Steve nodded a third time. "It came up in your bloodwork," he finally spoke up as he offered Nick a glass of water. "We had to give you a derivative of my drugs in order to take away your pain."

" _Your_ drugs?"

"Super soldier serum and all," Steve stated, as if that were obvious.

"So what now? You're going to call the Division?"

Steve actually looked offended by the question. "Of course not. Tony's making you a new set of IDs as we speak. As soon as you're healed, you're free to go."

Nick blinked at him. "I'm what?"

"Free to go." Steve paused, his brow furrowing. "We're not going to hold you. You're not some sort of experiment for people to study."

Nick couldn't figure out the heat in Steve's words, the way he practically spit the words out, but then, he remembered the Captain America origin story. "Thank you," the Mover said with as much sincerity as his drugged system could manage.

Steve just smiled. "You can make it up to us by staying until you're healed. And not, say, leaving in the middle of the night."

Nick pretended to think it over then nodded, _trusting_ in Captain America for no explicable reason—his dad would be rolling over in his grave at the thought.

After shifting positions, Nick looked up at the Captain. "Why not?"

* * *

One week later, Nick was standing at the elevator to Stark Tower, dressed in new clothes, with a new ID, credit cards, and a wad of cash in hand. The rest of the Avengers, sans Steve, Bruce and Thor (the latter two Nick hadn't seen at all over the past week), were standing around him in a semi-circle.

"I altered your digital trail and put you were in South America," Tony spoke up. "Should keep them off your back for a little while longer."

Nick nodded then held out his hand to the inventor, who shook it. "Thank you."

"Are you sure you don't want to stay here for a little while longer?" Steve asked as he walked up to the group. "We could use your help tracking down Division bases."

"I can't," Nick said sadly. "Not while they're still after me." And honestly, he wished he could stay. The Avengers had been nothing but kind to him this last week; he'd forgotten what that felt like now that Cassie had been sent to a special school where she was learning to harness her abilities.

Then he held up his wrist, showcasing the watch he, Tony and Bruce had designed, based on the science behind a Shadow's abilities. It'd be useless if a Sniff got close enough but it emitted a strong enough signal to keep the long-distance trackers away. It wasn't bad for only four days of R&D. "I have this though."

"Hopefully it helps," Tony said, raising an imaginary drink glass to the cause. Then he shifted his weight and continued, "I'm already running out the information you've given us. I know we'll find something to make a case against the Division leaders stick."

"I appreciate it," Nick responded, having run out of ways to say 'thank you' four days ago.

As Tony nodded, Natasha stepped forward and handed Nick a slip of paper. "That's my personal number. You or any other enhanced need a hand, give me a call."

Before Nick could open his mouth, she rested a finger against his lips. "Don't. I know."

He just smiled then shook her hand as well.

Behind him, the elevator doors slid open but Nick didn't step in. "I can't thank you enough," he said to all the Avengers.

"Well you did get shot on my behalf so it was the least I could do," Steve deadpanned, then grunted as Natasha elbowed him in the ribs.

The doors began to slide closed but Nick pushed them back with his powers. "You weren't _too_ hard on them, were you?" he asked, referring to the two who had shot and abducted him. Sure they deserved some sort of punishment but he'd seen the Avengers and some very powerful psychics in action and knew the two men didn't deserve anything of that magnitude.

Thankfully Clint shook his head. "Because you insisted, we barely touched them. Their trial for the kidnapping and assault charges is next week."

Nick smiled gratefully. "I'm gonna have a helluva story for Cassie when I see her again," he then said, changing subjects as he stepped into the car.

"Good luck," Steve said, holding out his hand.

Nick quickly shook, then allowed the doors to close before the elevator started to scream.

Tony had offered to drop him back in Hong Kong but Nick had declined since there was someone he had to visit here first. Armed with his new cloaking device and more supplies than he had in months, he headed for the subway and blended seamlessly into the crowd.


	15. Chapter 15: Gifted

**This chapter takes place post-Civil War but no teams are involved.**

 **Just to be clear, Tony and Happy are friends. Nothing more.**

* * *

Midnight found Tony Stark pacing the lab of his newly built Malibu home. The staff had long since gone home, Pepper was in Frankfurt for a shareholders' meeting, and the Rosses were uncharacteristically quiet, all of which had made for a rather boring evening in LA. After dinner and a couple hours of mind-numbing television, he'd tried to go to bed at a reasonable hour but his brain refused to shut off and kept lobbing ideas at his conscious. Eventually, he'd gotten up and gone back down to the lab, only to find all his minor projects were done and those that required more serious brainpower (ie: for him to be fully awake) had been locked by JARVIS with a two-key override (his and Pepper's, and there was _no_ way he was calling her to get her password). He could hack it but that wouldn't bode well for him upon her return.

So he paced and paced, hoping to tire himself out. On his eighteenth turn, his gaze travelled to his desk, where a stack of files were sitting: the candidates for the Stark Industries Internship. Apparently there had been so many highly-qualified candidates this year that Pepper had tasked Tony with choosing the final lucky few.

He did another lap, trying to think of something, _anything_ , else to do…and came up empty.

He scowled then slouched down at his desk. Before he could open the first file, he heard a soft whirring and saw DUM-E placing a steaming mug on the rightmost side of his desk.

"Thanks buddy," Tony said, petting the bot's head with his left hand, while his right grabbed the coffee mug. He took a few long sips before putting the mug down and getting to work.

An hour later, he had to admit that all the applicants in the pile were exceptional. There was one in particular that caught his eye though: an eight-year old girl from St. Petersburg, Florida, whose mathematics skills were off the charts. That in itself wasn't unusual, as most of the applicants' were. No, what intrigued Tony was the fact that, though she was taking differential equations at the local college, she was in a normal elementary school, having turned down a full scholarship to the highly-accredited Oakes Academy.

This didn't make sense to him and, knowing he wasn't going to be able to sleep until he'd solved this puzzle, Tony pulled out his starkPhone and dialed the number on the application.

* * *

The ringing of his cell phone jarred Frank Adler rudely from his sleep. He groaned loudly and fumbled for the device, which was sitting on his nightstand.

"'lo?" he mumbled, his face still buried in his pillow.

"Why isn't Mary attending the Oakes?" a man's voice demanded.

"Wha'?"

"Mary. Why isn't she attending the Oakes Academy?"

Frank squinted at the digital clock, seeing the blurry numbers read 4:12. "'S 4 AM," he grumbled into the phone.

"Oh." The voice on the other end had the decency to sound chagrined.

By this time, Frank's brain had started to wake up. "How do you know about Mary? How did you get this number?"

"Her application for the Stark Industries Internship."

Frank sat bolt upright in bed. "Her what? Who is this?"

"This is Tony Stark."

Frank scoffed into the phone line. "Yeah right. Seriously, who is this?"

"Tony Stark," the voice repeated, after a brief pause. "Turn on the video chat on your phone and I'll show you."

"My phone doesn't do that. How do you know about Mary?"

"What do you mean 'your phone doesn't do that'? It's 2017!"

"I'm hanging up now," Frank said before doing just that.

He flopped back onto his bed, hoping to fall right back to sleep. Unfortunately, his phone rang again. Having just seen the same number on the caller ID, Frank denied the call, powered down his phone then pulled the second pillow over the top half of his face, using his arms to pin it down by his ears.

He and Mary hadn't applied for any internship so it was probably just some think tank trying to find out more about her. Besides, like Tony Stark was really going to call—

Unbelievably, his phone began to ring for a third time, even though Frank was sure he'd turned it off.

He picked up the phone and slid it between the pillows. "This is bordering on harassment. I'm calling the police."

"Wait! I really am calling about Mary's application and I really am Tony Stark. I just—"

"Mary never filled out any internship application."

"Frank?" a soft voice said.

The boat repairman shifted the topmost pillow to see Mary in the doorway, clutching Fred in her arms. "What's going on?" she asked, her voice thick with sleep.

"Nothing, Mary," Frank replied. "Just some crackpot calling about an internship."

To his surprise, Mary's eyes widened, but with guilt, not surprise.

"Did you apply for a Stark Industries internship?" Frank asked, wincing as his tone was way more authoritative than he'd been going for.

Mary was still for a second, then nodded.

Frank turned his attention back to the phone. "Call you back in ten?" He didn't wait for a response before ending the call.

"Am I in trouble?" Mary asked, shifting her weight anxiously back and forth.

"Depends on how the rest of our conversation goes." Frank sat upright and patted the space next to him on the bed. Mary deposited Fred into Frank's lap then climbed up beside him.

Though thousands of questions were bouncing around his brain, Frank remained silent, waiting for her to explain.

"Don't get mad at Roberta!" Mary finally exclaimed, staring intently at Fred's back. "I told her you said I could fill out the application but didn't have time to do it yourself."

Frank chose to temporarily ignore the fact she'd lied to Roberta and continued to wait quietly.

"I know we've talked about think tanks and just doing math and no other stuff but I saw the flyer at the college and it looked _really_ fun and I looked it up online and it isn't a think tank and it's all-expenses paid so you don't have to worry about the money and it's in New York, which I've always wanted to go to—I know it's far from here but it's only for eight weeks over the summer so I won't miss any school—and they only take twenty people in the whooooooole world so I didn't think I was going to get it but I had to try for it because it sounded really fun and please please please don't get mad at Roberta." Mary finally paused to breathe and, after another moment, hesitantly lifted her gaze to meet her uncle's.

"Do you still have this flyer?"

Mary nodded, then launched herself off the bed and toward her desk, where she dug through her backpack rather cartoonishly, sending papers flying in all directions. A minute later, she was back beside Frank, holding out a crisp blue flyer.

That in itself told Frank quite a bit. The papers in Mary's bag were crinkled, crumpled and barely legible on the best of days—perks of her being a second grader—but this paper was well-taken care of, which meant it meant a lot to her.

He flipped on the nightstand light and read the tri-folded brochure. Mary had been right about all the internship's attributes—all-expenses paid; eight weeks of working in the SI R&D labs, sometimes under the heads of departments; and a presentation at the end with what they'd learned. Thankfully, there also seemed to be three levels: one for high-schoolers, one for 6-8th graders and one for younger kids. The brochure also promised lots of breaks and sight-seeing opportunities for the younger groups.

It sounded too good to be true.

"Why didn't you tell me?" he asked her, looking up from the sheet.

"I know how you feel about math camps." Mary looked down again and began tracing patterns in Frank's sheets. "I was gonna tell you if I got in."

"Mary, look at me." The little girl did, somewhat reluctantly. "Do you really want to do this?"

She nodded. "More than I want a piano."

"Okay." Frank reached out and pulled her into a quick hug. "I need to go call Tony Stark back then."

Mary's eyes got impossibly wide. "That was Tony Stark? You were talking to Tony Stark? Oh my God, Frank why didn't you say anything? Can I talk to him—"

"No. You are going back to bed. You have school in a few hours."

"But I'm not going to be able to sleep now," Mary whined, flinging herself dramatically over the bed.

"Well then you can spend the time thinking about how you're going to apologize to Roberta."

Mary's expression soured. "Do I have to?"

Frank stared at her until Mary exhaled loudly.

"It'll go better with cookies. Roberta likes chocolate," she proclaimed as she climbed down from the bed and scooped Fred into her arms.

Frank barely turned his head in time to hide his smile. As Mary pattered down the hallway, he picked up his cell phone but paused when he heard the footsteps stop, close enough to still be in earshot. "Bed!" he shouted and the steps raced to the other side of the house.

Frank waited until he heard the squeal of Mary's mattress springs before redialing the last number. He immediately pulled the phone away from his ear as AC/DC blared through the speaker. Thankfully it died down a split second later.

"Frank? Can I call you Frank? Mr. Adler—"

"Is it a think tank?"

"What?" Tony Stark, if that's who this really was, sounded genuinely confused.

"Your internship. Is it a think tank? Are you going to stick Mary and the other interns in a bunker and make them solve the world's problems without a break?"

"No." Now Stark sounded almost offended. "Is that what you think we do here? At her age, she's going to get some problems from R&D with real-life applications and see if she and her other interns can solve them. Then the last month, they'll get to work on a problem of their choosing. They'll have a whole floor to themselves, complete with ten-foot windows, and a relaxation slash arcade area. They can work whatever hours they want, though we cap it at five a day for her group. There's plenty of other fun activities for them to do in the rest of the time. Pepper's spent two weeks with the team in charge ensuring just that."

"It sounds too good to be true," Frank said. "You can understand why I'm hesitant."

"Didn't you and Mary fill out the application together? Your name is all over it."

Crap.

Not wanting to hurt Mary's chances at this, Frank decided to go for a half-truth. "She filled it out with a neighbor while I was at work. She forgot to mention it until tonight." Frank cleared his throat then asked, "Does that mean she's in?"

"She's in the top twenty-five. I have five names to throw out before breakfast."

"Does her not being at the Oakes hurt her chances?"

"No, it's just intriguing to me, someone of her abilities. I want to know why."

"Is it going to influence your decision?"

"Call it personal curiosity."

Frank took a deep breath, then gave Tony the same watered-down version of the story he'd told Principal Davis when the Oakes offer had first been made. "I want her to be a well-balanced human being."

Then he heard the sound of a file being moved and his stomach sank. "Was that what you wanted to hear?"

"Was it the truth?" Stark countered.

"Yeah."

"Then yes. Thank you for your time, Mr. Adler. We'll be sending out our decisions in a week." With that, the call ended.

Frank heard footsteps approaching but this time didn't object to them.

"What did he say?" Mary asked as soon as she'd reached the doorway.

"We'll know in a week," Frank said, putting his phone back on the nightstand then sliding back into bed. He closed his eyes, hoping Mary would get the hint, but, when he didn't hear any movement, he smacked the space next to him. Within seconds, there was a warm bundle curled up into his side.

"I love you Frank," Mary said before she drifted off to sleep.

"I love you too Mary."

Unfortunately, sleep didn't come as quickly to Frank as it had to his niece and he spent the next two hours making a plan to ask Mrs. Davis and Mary's teachers at the college whether this internship was a good idea.

* * *

 _Three months later…_

"I can't believe the Warlock cancelled!" Tony Stark groused as he paged through his holographic cue cards. It was Orientation Day of the eighth annual Stark Industries Internship program and every year, despite having purposefully planned meetings and other events during that time frame, he magically ended up being available for the opening address. This year, he'd scheduled a meeting with the inscrutable Feeny, director of HR, who hadn't cancelled a meeting in over a decade. "He hasn't—"

"I know, boss. I heard you the first ten times."

"Ten years!" Tony continued as if he hadn't heard Happy. Then he made a sweeping motion over his phone and the cards disappeared. "Not one cancellation!"

He looked over his shoulder expectantly, awaiting an objection, but Happy had his earphones in.

Tony supposed he deserved that. He'd been a little on-edge since this morning, his anxiety only increasing as the presentation came closer. It was his first public speaking appearance since the "Superhero Civil War" as the media was dubbing it and, while he loved meeting the kids, the entire setting from the presentation to the number of people in such a small space was stressing him out, even with Happy in full Forehead of Security mode.

Not to mention his last appearance, the September Foundation opening, hadn't exactly ended on the most positive of notes.

Today wasn't going to be like that though. Everyone had been vetted before arriving as well as wanded at the door and security was milling around in plainclothes. Rhodey was even on-call with the War Machine armor (for which Tony had had to cash in quite a few favors) in case anything serious happened. There was no chance of anything happening to him or his future interns.

Yet, ice twisted his intestines and Tony sprang to his feet, once again pacing in an attempt to work off his nervous energy. As he passed the door to the private hospitality room, he glanced through it on a whim…and stopped breathing when he recognized one of the faces in the adjacent ballroom.

It had changed quite a bit, the skin tanned instead of pale, the hair brown instead of blond, and a beard where a smooth jaw had once been, but the man was, without a doubt, Steve Rogers.

Before he'd even realized it, Tony had tapped his watch to activate his suit, then burst through the door.

He heard Happy yelling at him in the background, his thundering footsteps following, but Tony lithely cut through the crowd until he was standing behind Steve. He reached out, grabbed Steve's shoulder and spun him around.

"Hey!" Steve objected but Tony was beyond worrying about being rude.

"What the hell are you doing here?" he hissed.

Steve looked confused, angry, then surprised as he realized who was holding his shoulder. "I'm here with Mary, my niece."

And something about his words cut through Tony's anxiety like a hot knife. He blinked hard, then took another look at the man, this time seeing all the distinguishing facial features that proved this man was not, in fact, Steve Rogers.

Before Tony could get his mouth to work again, a high-pitched voice cried, "Oh my gosh. I'm standing next to Tony Stark—I mean, Mr. Stark." Then something blonde bobbed into his peripheral vision. He looked down to see a younger girl literally bouncing on the balls of her feet. Then, as if a switch had been flipped, she stilled and held out her hand. "Mary Adler, sir. Thank you for having me this summer."

 _Adler?_

Without taking her hand, Tony's gaze snapped back up to not-Steve. "You're Frank Adler?"

The man nodded, his face lined with mild concern. "I'm sorry I didn't RSVP," he said slowly, "but Fred turned the invite into confetti. I called and they said I could still come." He looked down at Mary, then again up at Tony. "I can go, just don't kick out Mary."

"I'm not gonna…kick out Mary," Tony sputtered. "You just…remind me of someone. Caught me by surprise," he said, trying to sound as flippant and off-beat as possible, as opposed to straight-up crazy. He took three large steps back then said, "Glad to have you both. Thanks for coming. See you in a sec."

With that, he turned and ran directly into Happy.

"Let's get you out of here," the security guard said, easily cutting through the crowd toward the stage, where the back exit lay. Thankfully, the participants gave him his space and didn't throng around him like other crowds had been known to do.

"What was that all about?" Happy asked once they were safely behind the stage.

"I thought I saw Steve," Tony muttered, barely audible.

"Captain Rogers isn't on the guest list, boss, he wouldn't have made it through the door."

Tony frowned up at Happy. "I know that now," he said darkly. Then he paused. "He looks like Steve though, right? I'm not crazy? Well, maybe a little crazy—passionate, actually—"

Happy nodded, cutting off the rest of Tony's monologue. "Similar enough." Then it was his turn to fall silent as he pulled out his cell phone. "Do I need to call Pepper?"

"What? No. I'm fine. I'm just..." Tony took a deep inhale, "... _breathing_. In and out. Like Bruce taught me."

He looked around and spotted a table stacked with water bottles, snagged one, and emptied it in a few large gulps.

"Do you want to cancel the address?" Happy asked when he was finished.

Tony sucked in a deep breath through clenched teeth. "No. I'll be fine. Just caught me by surprise." He straightened up slightly on his next inhale and rolled out his neck. "Never better."

By the time he'd gotten back to vertical, Happy was standing next to him, his arm extended. "I'm going to put my hand on your shoulder now, boss," the head of security said, before doing just that. "I know you're all super now," he continued in a softer tone, "but I'll always do what I can to keep you safe...as much as one superpower-less security guard can anyway."

Caught off-guard, Tony could do nothing but stare blankly at Happy while his brain processed what had just been said. Sure Tony considered Happy one of his closest friends, perhaps even edging into _family_ at this point, but their friendship was built on banter and wit, not at open affection like the security guard was showing today. And yet, given all that had happened of late, Tony realized he didn't mind as much.

Before he could open his mouth though, Happy retracted his arm, ending the Hallmark moment. "I'll give you a minute," he said as he began to walk away.

"Uh, Hap?"

His friend turned around at the stage exit. "Yes boss?"

 _Thank you for always being there, for putting up with all my eccentricities, for being my friend—_

"Do you think you could coral Frank and Melissa—"

"Mary."

Tony waved the correction away, "—after the speech? Assuming they haven't headed for the hills. I think I owe them a proper apology."

"Sure, boss." Happy smiled then disappeared out the doorway.

Three seconds later, a young woman ran up to him. "Mr. Stark! You're on!"

Tony sucked in a deep breath, _trusting_ in Happy, the security details, and Rhodey, then stepped onto the stage, his outgoing public persona fully in place.

* * *

"Is it bad if he wants to meet with us?" Mary asked, tugging at the hem of Frank's shirt. They were sitting at a table in an empty ballroom across from Happy Hogan, supposedly Tony Stark's head of security. After introducing himself and leading them here, Hogan had disappeared into his tablet and hadn't looked up since.

"Mr. Hogan here says he just wants to talk about earlier," Frank replied. He then freed his shirt from Mary's grip and took her hand in his instead.

"So I'm not getting kicked out?"

At that moment, Hogan laughed and it took Frank a beat to realize it was directed at Mary, not at something happening on his tablet. Fury burned through his chest but, before he could speak, Hogan looked Mary directly in the eye. "Of course not, Mary! You're in the program for as long as you want to be."

Mary looked relieved, going so far as to melt into her chair, which rumpled the bow Roberta had spent so much time ironing. Though Hogan's laugh was well-intentioned, Frank was a little less forgiving and continued to scowl at the security guard until Mary's relief dissolved into impatience. She straightened up and tilted Frank's arm so she could see his watch.

"Where is Mr. Stark?" she asked Hogan, who consulted his tablet again.

"Apparently he's right outside."

Sure enough, the door swung open and none other than Tony Stark walked in. He didn't sit; in fact, he barely made it two steps in the door.

"I'm sorry," he blurted out. "About earlier. You just reminded me of someone. Caught me off-guard."

"Steve Rogers?" Frank asked and saw a flash of surprise on Tony's face, followed by a nod a split second later. "Yeah, I get that a lot. We're nothing alike though, if that makes you feel better," he was quick to add.

"You should see him at school," Mary interjected. "The other moms won't leave him alone."

Happy snorted loudly, which he masked beneath an equally boisterous cough as he turned back to his tablet.

But the little girl continued, undeterred, "he even signs autographs for my classmates. Once their parents say it's okay, that is."

"I'm sure your uncle is something else," Tony replied, his tone still sharp and on-edge. "Anyway, I'm sorry again but, on behalf of Stark Industries, we are really glad to have you and Mary here."

"Thank you, sir," Mary said, springing to her feet. "I can't wait to show you what I can do."

Tony smiled warmly, the first expression Frank had seen him make without an undercurrent of unease. "I look forward to it." Just then, his phone chirped and he pulled it from his pocket, scowling. "Duty calls."

"Of course," Frank said as he stood as well. "We won't keep you. Thank you again."

Tony nodded once then was gone.

"You know he hardly ever apologizes," Happy spoke up as he snapped the portable keyboard around his tablet. "He must really like you or your niece." Then he too left, leaving Frank and Mary in an empty ballroom.

The second they were gone, Mary launched herself at Frank. "I met Mr. Stark! In person!" she said, burying her face in his neck. "This is the. Best. Day. Ever!"

"I'm glad to hear that, Mary," Frank said, a wide grin on his own face.

After everything she'd been through in the past year, she deserved an opportunity like this, to do math, to have fun, to be a kid.

It was the happiest he'd seen her in a long while.

* * *

Up next in the _Doppelgangers_ series is _Mission: Impossible_ for jaymzNshed.

Thanks for reading!

(You can also find me on Tumblr: usaOneTwoThree!)


	16. Chapter 16: Mission Impossible

**For jaymzNshed.**

* * *

Clint Barton was humming softly as he walked out of the grocery store, swinging a six-pack of beer in one hand and a three-pack of steaks in the other. He finally had a weekend off and wanted nothing more than to spend it on the couch binge-watching his shows. He was easily two seasons behind on all of them but they hadn't been spoiled, largely due to Natasha and the _How I Met Your Mother_ incident of 2014; now people at SHIELD knew better than to discuss TV show and movies when agents were around.

He had just finished grilling his steak and had plopped down on his somewhat worn couch, beer in hand, when he heard a knock on the door.

"I'm not here," he shouted as he put his plate on the table and picked up a steak knife. He had just begun cutting into his perfectly cooked dinner when someone pounded on the door again, this time more insistently. Clint shot his steak one last longing look before retrieving the gun he had secured to the underside of his table and walking slowly over to the door.

"Who is it?" he asked, pressing himself against the side of the door that faced his bedroom, not the exterior wall.

"FBI," a deep voice called out.

 _FBI?_ Clint mouthed to himself, while adjusting his grip on his weapon.

"Mr. Barton, we really need you to open the door."

"Face the peephole then hold up your badge, one at a time," Clint ordered, taking his right hand off his gun to fish for his phone in his pocket. He then held the eye of the camera up to the peephole. The image wasn't super clear but he was able to see an agent, a badge, an agent and a badge, instead of, you know, the business end of the Glock.

"Wave the badge," he ordered, after matching agent to badge. The agent on the left did, and Clint saw the blueish green strip flash through the middle of it. If the badges were fakes, they were damn good ones.

He scowled, swore, then undid the triple deadbolts and swung the door open. "What do you want?" he asked, gun lowered slightly but not so much he couldn't draw it up again if these two really were trouble.

"We need you to come in. We have a situation."

"Last time I checked, I don't work for you, so good night." Clint began to swing the door closed but was stopped by the second agent throwing up his forearm, keeping it from shutting entirely.

"Your director assured us you'd come with—"

"I highly doubt that."

The first agent pulled his partner's arm away from the door. "Can we at least come in and explain the situation?"

 _No, not with his rapidly cooling steak waiting to be consumed._ But there was something about the man's earnest expression that piqued Clint's interest. He swore again, then bowed dramatically, motioning in the agents with a flourish.

Thankfully, they only stepped into the foyer and didn't presume to go any further.

"We have a rather unique situation here. One of our UCs was in an accident on the way to a job. He'll be fine, but he broke his hand, which makes him ineligible for the op."

"I don't see how I fit in here."

One man held up a hand pacifyingly then reached into his jacket. Clint's hand tightened on his weapon but the man just pulled out a phone.

"This is Agent Brandt, sir," he said as he handed the phone to Clint. The face staring back at him was so similar to his own that Clint had to do a quick mental scan to make sure Brandt wasn't one of his aliases. Upon a more detailed second look, there were a few small differences in facial structure—ear shape, cheekbone definition, chin point—but nothing too significant. Brandt was even left-handed.

It was eerie to say the least.

"You want me to be Brandt for this op?" Clint surmised, handing the phone back.

"Unfortunately yes. The op is time-sensitive and we have far too much time invested in it to pull back now." The man then swallowed sourly. "The FBI will owe you a great debt."

Clint considered this for a moment, then nodded. "What's the job?"

"Bank robbing."

"Oh goody."

* * *

It was a little hard to eat steak while Nakamura, the first agent, was weaving between lanes of traffic like an idiot but Clint managed. As "eating in fast-moving vehicles" went, it wasn't even close to his worst convoy flight.

"I want those back," Clint said as he climbed out of the SUV an hour later, pointing to his plate and utensils which were still in the backseat. "Good silverware is so hard to come by these days."

"Sir, the fork is plastic."

"Exactly." With that, Clint turned on his heel and walked toward the hospital where Brandt was being held for overnight observation. A beat later, he heard another set of footsteps approaching and recognized them, which was the only reason he didn't pull out his gun when Coulson fell into stride beside him.

"It's my day off," Clint immediately began to grouse, even though he knew Coulson knew he'd already accepted the job.

"You'll get overtime," Phil replied as they bypassed the receptionist and headed straight for the bank of elevators.

"That hardly makes it worth it."

Coulson shot him a sidelong glance but didn't comment further.

The elevator ride was filled with silence and, from the moment Clint stepped into Brandt's room, he could see that Nakamura and Abrams had greatly underplayed just how injured Brandt was. The FBI agent's left hand was in a cast that ran from the tip of his ring finger to his elbow, his right eye swollen shut and there was a large bandage around his head holding two pieces of gauze in place. He was shirtless, sheet pulled up to his waist, revealing a thick swath of bruising from left shoulder down to right hip, obviously from a seat belt. And that was just the damage Clint could see.

"Hey," Brandt rasped as Clint stepped into the room. Then he rolled his head toward the middle-aged man standing next to him, looking up at him with a lopsided expression. "I told you they'd find someone who looked like me."

The middle-aged man just squeezed Brandt's shoulder, while eyeing the IV drip the agent was hooked up to. Then he released Brandt and turned to face Clint and Coulson.

"I'm Secretary Hunley, Impossible Missions Force," he then said, holding out his right hand, while flipping open his badge with his left.

Coulson shook the proffered hand but Clint was more hesitant. "I thought your guys said FBI."

"They did, Agent Barton. I apologize for the deception but we didn't know if you knew what the IMF was and didn't want to make a scene in your apartment building. I can assure you they are in fact IMF agents."

Clint grumbled an affirmative, knowing Miss Beatty down the hallway had ears like a bat for things like this, then reluctantly shook Hunley's hand.

"Brandt," the injured agent said, lifting his right hand about six inches before the IV port began to pucker. Hunley immediately reached over and guided Brandt's hand back within the confines of the bed rails. The injured agent just stared at the back of his hand in confusion, as if unable to figure out why he was on an IV; Clint couldn't blame him, having been in the same situation a time or two.

He also found himself inexplicably unsettled by the massive similarities between him and Brandt, now that he could see the other man in person. In hindsight, he should have been more prepared for this, given the frequency at which they'd run into lookalikes for the rest of the Avengers over the last few years, but in this moment it was still odd to see his face on someone else's body. But there was time for dealing with that later. Right now, there was some sort of time-sensitive op that needed to be completed.

"The job?" he prompted once Brandt had moved on to blinking owlishly at his cast.

"Brandt was undercover with a group called the Red Hawks," Hunley began, "whose sole purpose is to weed out and kill the unworthy humans. Strengthening the gene pool or something like that. Last week, the Red Hawk leadership received word that there was some key intel in a safety deposit box at United Bank. Brandt, who had been posing as a local thief, volunteered to help them get into it." Hunley paused to look down at his agent. "As you can see, that's no longer possible."

"I assume you planted the information?" Clint asked.

"We did. We have agents at all of the locations mentined, ready to step in when the Hawks attack."

Brandt sobered for a split second and tried to push his sheet away. Hunley just reached down and laid a hand on Brandt's shoulder, the agent instantly stilling.

Clint wasn't at all satisfied with that answer. "And this is an _Impossible_ Mission because?"

"That's classified."

Brandt nodded solemnly at that but Barton was unsure he was understanding what Hunley was really saying.

"If you want me to be Brandt, I need to know what the bigger picture is here."

But Hunley just shook his head. "I'm sorry Agent Barton. All I can tell you is that by helping the Red Hawks get the false information, you'll be greatly helping our cause." He then turned from the waist and picked up a manila file folder lying on Brandt's nightstand. "This is your cover identity," Hunley continued, holding out the folder. "Feel free to let me know if there are any questions."

"I need to consult with my boss," Clint said, looking at Coulson then the door. "Outside."

"We'll be right back," Coulson told Hunley before following his agent into the hallway.

Clint barely waited until the door to Brandt's room was closed before beginning: "That is the least cohesive—"

"You need to do it," Coulson interrupted.

"No way. I'm practically going in blind. I might not be able to make the right call in the field without at least a heavily redacted version of the objective."

"You need to do this, Clint," Coulson repeated. "I can't tell you why but it's important. You can even say it's a personal favor to me if you want but you need to go."

Clint stared blankly for a minute at his boss. "That important, huh?"

Coulson nodded.

"Okay," Clint said. "But I get two whole weeks off for this."

"Done," Coulson replied without argument.

Clint blinked then walked back into Brandt's hospital room, muttering about how he should have asked for more.

"Are you in?" Agent Hunley asked, extending the folder again.

Clint nodded unhappily but accepted.

"Brian Gamble, huh?" he said after flipping open the file. Then he snapped it closed and turned to walk out the door. "I need coffee."

"You can't—" Hunley objected but Coulson must have said something for Hunley didn't follow.

* * *

Four hours later, Clint pulled a beat-up old sedan in front of the address Brandt had given him. He killed the engine but remained in the car, foot tapping anxiously against the floor mat. He hadn't felt this way about a mission in a long time; in a normal op, he was his cover identity from the start, meaning the rest of his crew would be used to his mannerisms and quirks. Now, he was supposed to impersonate Brandt, who, in his drugged up state, hadn't been super forthcoming about details like how he stood, or which arm he crossed on top or how he drove. But, fortunately, Brandt had slurred something about the previous two meetings having taken place in dimly lit bars, so at least there was a little room for error on Clint's part.

He took a deep breath, remembered his newly brokered deal for two-weeks uninterrupted vacation and walked up the front stoop.

He knocked, then took a step backwards in order to be seen in the peephole. As habit, he stood partially off-center so any projectile that was launched from the peephole would hit him off-center.

The door opened after a moment and a dark-skinned man opened it—Pearce, Clint knew from the dossier.

"Do you have it?" Pearce asked in a deep, gravelly voice.

Clint wordlessly held up the id Brandt had given him. According to the fake intel the IMF had released, Cameron Summers was a reporter who had amassed entire articles worth of information that would be useful to the Red Hawks' cause. It had been Brandt's job to secure an ID for Summers' information but with his picture so they could access the box without raising a lot of red flags. According to Brandt, it had been decided to put Brandt's (or his cover identity Gamble's) picture on the ID since they'd need his lockpicking skills to open the safety deposit box once it had been fetched for them.

Pearce took the ID and examined it closely. After a long moment, he nodded and stepped aside. Clint took that as an invitation to enter.

There were two other men in the room, one Caucasian with long blonde hair tied up in a manbun and the second Hispanic, his brown eyes sharp and cutting. Their identities hadn't been in the dossier so Clint was vehemently hoping they'd never met Brandt before.

"Bourke and Martinez," Pearce said and Clint internally breathed a sigh of relief. The official introduction confirmed his plea, but also meant he didn't have to be quite as cautious around them with his Brandt-isms as he had to be around Pearce.

The Red Hawks leader handed back the ID then walked toward the center of the room and picked up a holstered gun sitting on the center table, sliding it onto his belt.

"Your car clean?" he asked Clint, who nodded.

"Then let's go."

* * *

Two hours later, Clint was walking back out of the Red Hawks base, having successfully retrieved the intel with Pearce and handed it over to Bourke, who spread it all out _Beautiful Mind_ style and began to analyze it. Clint had even mentioned how Gamble would be travelling for work over the next few weeks, which would give Brandt a chance to heal up enough to rejoin the op. Pearce had taken this information in stride, even commenting how it was probably for the best, given the very public mission they'd just gone on.

Clint had then driven to a predetermined apartment complex where Hunley and Coulson were waiting in room 237 to debrief him.

"Brandt okay?" Clint asked as he dropped into the seat across from Hunely at the cheap plastic table and propped his feet up on the corner.

"Will be eventually," Hunley replied while he pulled out a pocket recorder. "He's upset he didn't get to see this mission through."

"He didn't miss much. Plus he has an excuse for being AWOL for the next few weeks."

Hunley grinned widely then flipped on the recorder, which Clint took as a sign to run through his last two hours with the Red Hawks. When he was done, the IMF secretary thanked Clint for his service then left the room.

Clint shifted in his chair to face Coulson who was sitting to his right and hadn't spoken since his arrival. "Anything else?" the SHIELD agent asked drily.

Thankfully Coulson just shook his head and held out Barton's cell phone and wallet. "You're free to go."

Clint was out of the chair in about two seconds flat. "Good. I'm officially informing you that my two weeks of vacation, promised as collateral for pinch hitting, start now."

"What if we need to get a hold of you?" Coulson asked; thankfully though, it was phrased as a genuine question, not an objection.

"I'm sure Stark can find me. He's probably got trackers on us all anyway."

Clint was hoping for more of a denial but Coulson just shrugged. "Your car is out back. Have a good vacation."

Barton smiled widely as he all but sprinted out of the room to the back of the apartment complex where, as promised, his car was parked. What he hadn't been expecting though was the full tank of gas, a cooler filled with Clint's favorite snacks, and his washed plate and utensils from the back of the IMF SUV.

Making a mental note to thank Coulson later, Clint ground the engine to life and took off for…anywhere but here.

* * *

 **Thanks for reading! Up next in the _Doppelgangers_ series is the Huntsman for Gillespie Girl on ao3!**


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